Renoir's Ghost
by The Irish Chauffeur
Summary: The Second World War is now over. And, in its aftermath, while much has been lost, much yet remains. Now, for the Bransons in Ireland, the Crawleys in England, and the Schönborns in France, there comes the struggle of rebuilding their lives and trying to come to terms with a world which for them, as well as for others, has changed forever. A sequel to "The White Cliffs of Dover".
1. Chapter 1

Renoir's Ghost

Chapter One

The Stranger From The North

 **La Rosière, near Nantes, France, autumn 1947.**

"Mama!"

Edith raised her head.

She had been sitting quietly here beside the Loire, looking again at the clutch of black and white photographs which had arrived here only a few days ago, from Ireland, from her daughter-in-law, Claire; Claire Branson as she was now, who following the tragic death of her young husband Max, Edith's elder boy, had eventually married his cousin, Edith's nephew, Danny, the eldest of darling Tom and Sybil's brood. All of the photographs were pictures of Edith's young grandson, Josef, now aged four. He looked, thought Edith, so like his father had done at the same age.

And now, as she shaded her eyes against the glare of the low autumn sunshine, if only but for an instant, the young man running down the steps towards her could have been darling Max, for in build, in colouring, even in the timbre of his voice now that it had deepened, he looked and sounded so much like his adored elder brother. Only, it was not Max but Kurt, now fifteen years old, who came to a stand before her, beside the water's edge.

Bounding down from the upper terrace alongside Kurt had come Hope, the golden Labrador. Like them saved from the _Lancastria_ when she had been sunk off the French coast in June 1940, and who, with Rosenberg burned and looted by the Red Army in the closing days of the war, the Schönborns had brought with them back here to La Rosière in the summer of 1945 when they decided to return to live, not in Austria, but here in France.

Hope was panting heavily. Edith reached down and fondled the old dog's head.

"Kurt, darling, you know you shouldn't let her run like that! At her time of life, it doesn't do her any good at all".

"Sorry, Mama. I didn't call her to come with me. She just did!"

"Well what is it that brings you down here in such a tearing great hurry?"

Kurt held out to her a letter.

"This came for you. In the afternoon post. It's from England. Postmarked _Downton_. Papa said I should bring it out to you straightaway".

"Yes, thank you, my darling".

Edith took the proffered letter. Even without her spectacles, which these days she wore for reading, as did Friedrich, like Hope, none of them was getting any younger, she recognised the handwriting immediately; that of her much loved brother-in-law, Matthew Crawley, earl of Grantham.

"Aren't you going to open it, Mama?"

"Don't be so impatient! Yes, of course I am". While Kurt seated himself on the bench next to his mother and began to play with Hope, beside him Edith tore open the envelope and then briefly scanned the contents of the letter within.

... _the enclosed arrived here today from Hassle and Hassle. I suspect I know what it contains. Of course, Mary doesn't know. And in the circumstances, it's probably for the best that she doesn't. So, although I know it's a continuing imposition, would you please do what needs to be done? Darling, Edith, I know I can rely on you. And, one thing more, would you ..._

Edith glanced at the name written on the second sealed envelope within. Nodded her head in understanding.

"I wonder where they are now?" she mused.

"Mama?"

"No matter". Edith stood up. "My darling, this needs replying to directly". She smiled down at Kurt, who in height now topped her by several inches, just as darling Max had done. Kurt too now rose and Edith linked her arm through that of her son. "You're not too grown to walk your Mama back up to the house, are you?" The words tore at her heart and her eyes glistened, wet with tears.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, afternoon, 23rd July 1940.**

At his mother's approach, Max raised his head and then, on seeing who it was, he smiled. Edith did too. While she would readily have admitted to being prejudiced in the matter, there was no denying the fact that Max, who as a boy had been so very handsome, had grown into a fine looking young man. Were it not for his haemophilia, at sometime in the future he would have made an excellent catch for somebody's daughter. For a moment Edith's eyes misted at what could never be. Recovering herself, she offered her eldest son her arm.

"You're not too grown to go for a walk with your old Mama, are you?" she asked; was relieved, indeed ridiculously so, when she saw Max shake his head.

"Of course not, Mama". Max grinned. Scrambling hastily to his feet, he clasped her right hand, then brought it quickly to his lips in a perfectly executed _baisse-main_. For a moment, their eyes met. Then, having linked arms, they set off slowly back towards the house.

* * *

 **La Rosière, near Nantes, France, autumn 1947.**

Singularly unaware of what it was that had so moved her, Kurt smiled down at his mother. While he knew she used glasses for reading, now, for the very first time, he saw her hair to be flecked with grey.

The bloody, bloody war, thought Kurt, savagely. It had taken its toll on all of them. Not just in the millions, military or civilian, who had died or been wounded, let alone those who had perished in the concentration camps, murdered by the Nazis, like the Dutch and Polish relatives of his Jewish friend from the East End of London, Isaac Solomon.

And in the roll call of the dead, Kurt included his own brother Max, as much a casualty of the conflict as had been their cousin Bobby, Uncle Tom and Aunt Sybil's boy, killed when the Luftwaffe had bombed Dublin by mistake. And Granny Cora too, who died when a blazing Heinkel bomber had crashed onto the Dower House. If he closed his eyes Kurt could still hear the frantic ringing of the bell of the fire engine, the roar of the flames which that night had lit up the night sky in Downton in an inferno of searing, soaring, towering flames.

"No, of course not, Mama. I'd be honoured".

* * *

 **Grand Union Canal, Northamptonshire, England, late summer 1948.**

There is of course a right way, and indeed several wrong ways, to navigate a pair of narrow boats through a lock, or in this case a succession of locks. The tail gates must be shut before the paddles of the head gates are drawn; the paddles must be drawn in the right order. And the boats need to be kept up to the sills in order to prevent them bumping their rudders on the tail gates. Not that this presented any difficulty whatsoever to the two young men who had just brought the pair of heavily laden boats down through the ten staircase locks at Foxton and thence through the narrow brick lined bore of Bosworth Tunnel.

But then, they knew their trade.

* * *

Although it was late summer, this evening, while he was strapping the two boats just below the eastern portal of Bosworth Tunnel, Alec Foster thought there had been a distinct chill in the air, presaging an early autumn. A short while later, having joined Simon down inside the cosy little cabin, Alec peered over his friend's shoulder at the bacon, eggs, sausages, mushrooms, and bread, sizzling in the frying pan.

"That smells really good".

"Yes, I'm sure it does. But this time, I'll thank you to keep your ruddy fingers out of it!"

"Oh, go on, Si', just one piece of fried bread".

"No. Wait until it's on the plate!"

"You're a hard man Mr. Crawley. Denying a poor working boy a crust of bread".

"Yes, I am. Only just noticed?"

"I expect you beat your servants too".

"Yes. Flogged all of 'em, I did, within an inch of their lives!"

Simon grinned. Totally at ease with each other, this easy banter between the two of them was of daily occurrence.

"I'm parched. Is there any tea?"  
"There's fresh in the pot".

Simon nodded towards the table, the top of which, hidden beneath a red and white check cloth was formed from the hinged door of the cupboard beside it, which, when necessary could be lowered to form a table. Here on board, space was very much at a premium. Alec saw the table was already neatly laid for supper. Crockery, cutlery, teapot, breadboard and knife, all present and correct. Saw too, that beyond the dividing curtain, Simon had likewise let down the double mattress where, snug and warm, they would both sleep soundly tonight.

"Make yourself useful will you, Alec? Fetch me in some more water".  
Alec nodded; did as he was bidden. Climbed back on deck to fetch the can from down off the roof.

"Hullo, who's this?"

Hearing Alec's question, Simon set the pan aside and poked his head aloft. Saw a young dark haired lad in a cloth cap riding a bicycle along the towpath towards them. A moment later and he drew to a stand beside them.

"Is there a Mr. S. Crawley on board, do you know?" piped the boy.

"And just who might you be?" asked Alec.

"Charlie Turton". The lad sounded genuinely affronted; as though Alec should have known who he was. "My dad's the village postmaster," Charlie added and with obvious pride. He nodded towards where, in the distance, the spire of a church and a huddle of red tiled roofs rose above the line of trees bordering the cut.

"I'm Simon Crawley".

However much he might try to disguise it, which on occasion he did, Simon's voice always betrayed his aristocratic antecedents; something which always made Alec smile. Now for the umpteenth time, it did so again, as Charlie now respectfully touched the brim of his cap.  
"I've a letter for you, sir".

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, late summer, 1949.**

Looking out of the window, Mary shook her head in mounting disbelief as with dismay she observed yet another coachload of day trippers winding its way up the long gravelled drive leading from the village before drawing to a stand and disgorging its passengers at the front entrance of the abbey. Here, in times past old Carson, dead these many years, as well as the equally late but unlamented Barrow, and more recently and still, Pickard, were wont to open the door to admit family, friends, and guests to the great house.

Just quite where all of these awful little people, along with their equally revolting, snivelling offspring hailed from, was a matter for conjecture but upon which it did not do to dwell too long. Had Mary herself been a gambler, and so disposed to bet on their likely antecedents and origins, she would have placed odds on the fact that some of the adults had recently been released from prison - Armley Gaol sprang readily to mind - some of the children no doubt from out of one or more of the local reformatories such as Castle Howard on whose Board of Governors, Matthew himself had once sat, or even, God forbid, journeyed here by charabanc, from one of the municipal housing estates over in distant Leeds.

Mary sighed.

Throughout the six long years of war, here in England, standards in everything had declined. However, while hostilities had ended in 1945, four years later, things had still not returned to what they had once been. In fact, in Mary's view, they were a whole lot worse.

Abroad, although the Union Jack still flew over vast swathes of Africa, above islands in the Caribbean and the Pacific, as well as in both Hong Kong and Singapore, India had been lost. As Tom had written to Matthew, shortly after the sub continent became independent, the sun was finally beginning to set on the far flung territories of the British Empire. And when, in April of this year, Ireland had been declared a republic and then left the British Commonwealth, Tom had been delighted.

Here at home, the railways had been nationalised - despite which the service was no better - so too the coal mines, the iron and steel industries, the electricity supply ... The list was endless. Still, with a Labour government in power what could one expect? Except, more of the same.

And what had happened yesterday afternoon was yet another symptom of the inexorable decline towards anarchy, when sitting quietly on her own, in this very room, Mary had become aware that she was being watched. Now, normally, of course, she left this kind of psychic nonsense to the likes of Edith and darling Tom but, this time, her innate sixth sense did not deceive. For, on turning her head, she was horrified to see a child, a young boy, no doubt the half witted offspring of some visitor, with his face pressed firmly against the outside of the window, gazing insolently into the room from that part of the garden which was set aside for the family and to this end, clearly marked "Private".

With an angry waft of her hand, Mary had waved him away, but not before the impudent little rascal, in all likelihood a reincarnation of the Artful Dodger, a member of some modern day Fagin style gang, had the temerity to stick out at her his liquorice stained tongue. Then and there, Mary had made a mental note to have a firm word, not only with the National Trust administrator, but also with Matthew. Surely, it was possible to re-draft the papers ceding Downton to the Trust? Insert a clause, requiring that only the _right kind_ of people were to be admitted to the house and grounds? Matthew ought to be able to come up with something. After all, even if now retired from the legal profession, he had been a solicitor.

Now, this afternoon, with another matter weighing equally heavily on her mind, thoroughly disconsolate, Mary turned away from the very same window of what, during the months when the house was opened by the Trust to the general public - between April and September - served as a temporary Drawing Room; although Matthew, along with the rest of the family, would insist on referring to it as a sitting room.

Mary sighed.

How dreadfully middle class.

A carelessly discarded ice cream wrapper lying on the ground caught her eye and momentarily, Mary returned to the problems caused by admitting the fee paying public to both the house and grounds. Toyed idly with the idea of asking Captain Wilshaw, with whom Matthew and she had become acquainted, and who she knew had been overseeing the clearance of caches of wartime munitions from off the beaches hereabouts, if he had any landmines going spare. Planted at strategic points around the grounds, they would ensure that visitors were kept out of and away from those areas which were marked "Private".

Failing that, there were several perfectly serviceable man-traps, dating back to the early years of the nineteenth century, now on display in the National Trust museum established in part of the old stables, which could easily be pressed back into service and left scattered around in the woods.

* * *

 **Côte d'Azur,** **France, early spring, 1949.**

Here on the beautiful, sun drenched Côte d'Azur, inland from off the sparkling blue waters of the Mediterranean, well away from the ever growing urban sprawl of the city of Nice, studded with holm oaks, umbrella pines, cypresses, larches, flowering laurel, as well as vineyards and olive groves, the limestone hills of the arrière pays are crowned by a scattering of ancient, fortified towns and villages. Among these, the best known are Carros, Gourdon, Eze, Roquebrune-Cap Martin, and St. Paul de Vence, their now crumbling watch towers and curtain walls built in times long past to protect their inhabitants from attack by raiders from off the sea.

In the last of these old world places was to be found the house, recently purchased by Simon Crawley and his chum Alec Foster, the money for which had come principally from the substantial inheritance bequeathed Simon by his late grandmother Cora, Dowager Countess of Grantham, and which he had inherited on his twenty fifth birthday, back in 1947, by which time he and Alec had been living together for some two years.

However, the news that his late grandmother had left him such a large sum of money took time to reach Simon, some eighteen months, and this in the form of a solicitor's letter, forwarded him by his Aunt Edith, who alone knew where Simon and Alec were to be found; Simon having severed all contact with his own family. This had followed hard upon his mother's misguided attempts to put an end to the relationship between Alec and Simon, which had led to Alec serving a prison sentence in Armley Gaol over in Leeds, for a crime of which he was entirely innocent, and for which Simon refused steadfastly to forgive his mother.

After he had left Downton forever in March 1944, when Alec had been released from prison in Leeds in April 1945, craving the anonymity which afforded them the opportunity to live their lives as they wanted, well away from prying eyes and from the censure of both family and society, they had spent the next four years working on narrow boats, up and down the length and breadth of the English canals.

And it was on a summer's evening, in 1948, while they were plying the waters of the Grand Union Canal and had for the coming night, strapped close to the eastern mouth of Bosworth Tunnel in Northamptonshire, that Aunt Edith's letter, enclosing the one from the singularly inappropriately named Messrs. Hassle & Hassle, Solicitors and Commissioners for Oaths, finally caught up with Simon.

* * *

Living back in France, at la Rosière, their beautiful château down on the banks of the River Loire near Nantes, with Uncle Friedrich and their younger son Kurt now aged sixteen, it was Aunt Edith who, several years earlier, on the night Alec left Downton, had suggested to Simon that, when Alec was released from prison and the war was over, they should consider moving abroad, to a country where the law tolerated their kind of relationship rather more than was the case in England. And, with the means now available to them to do so now at their disposal, was what had led Alec and Simon to settle here on the Côte d'Azur, early in the spring of 1949.

One of the reasons for coming down here was the hope that the warmer weather might help Simon's leg improve; the injury to it the result of an act of supreme heroism on his part which had taken place in the Sunda Strait, lying between Sumatra and Java, back in February 1942, and for which Simon had been awarded the Conspicuous Gallantry Medal. All these years later, the wound still caused him a great deal of discomfort. Sleeping in a narrow bunk, on board a succession of canal boats, let alone all the heavy, manual labour involved in steering such craft along the inland waterways of England, legging through tunnels and so forth, had not helped. Not at all. No, what Simon needed now was a change of climate and a less arduous job. And Alec was determined to see that both came to be realised.

But there was another reason which had brought the two of them down to the Cote d'Azur, and which again had to do with Aunt Edith. Or, more precisely with her long time White Russian friends, the Zhdanovs, Pyotr and Olga, who, along with their son Dimitri, lived in Biarritz and who had given Edith and young Kurt, then aged seven, shelter on their madcap flight to the Spanish border and safety, following the German invasion of France in June 1940.

Learning from Edith that Simon and his chum were looking for somewhere to buy and restore, the Zhdanovs, who had friends in St. Paul, had suggested the little town as an ideal place to look. Not only were prices hereabouts negligible but there were, thought Olga many properties which might provide the two young men with what it was they were seeking.

And so it proved to be.

* * *

 **St. Paul de Vence, Alpes-Maritimes, France.**

Built of local limestone, which constant exposure to countless years of wind, rain, and sun had weathered to a colour somewhere between honey and pale grey, the house stood, as indeed it must have done for centuries, in one of the narrow, winding, cobbled, stepped streets of St. Paul de Vence, but a short distance away from the parish church.

On seeing it for the very first time, both Alec and Simon had been of the same opinion: that beautiful as it must once have been, and indeed could be again, it was something of a miracle that the house itself had remained standing and not collapsed into the street in a pile of rubble. But no doubt only because the presence of the buildings adjoining it on either side had served as masonry crutches and so prevented that catastrophe from happening. This, along with the solidity of the original construction with massive oak timbers supporting the upper floors, while from the vaulted cellar right up to the attic, the walls were some three feet thick, all of which, including the spiral staircase, and two huge fireplaces, had been fashioned out of fine quality stone.

All this apart, the roof of the house needed completely replacing, with many of its timbers being completely rotten, or else heavily infested with woodworm, as indeed were most of the floorboards and so too the doors, window frames, and shutters. There was no electricity while the only supply of water came from a pump in the courtyard at the rear. Quite how, with the house in such a perilous state of disrepair, old Bonnemort, a widower, had managed to live here on his own for so long - upwards of fifty years it was said - remained something of a mystery, but it seemed that he had spent most of his time living, eating, as well as sleeping in the huge kitchen and, certainly in his later years, rarely, if ever ventured upstairs.

So because of all the repairs that it would be necessary to undertake to make the house habitable, the price being asked for the property by the vendor, old Bonnemort's son, had been understandably modest which Alec and Simon, who between them drove a hard bargain, had managed to reduce still further; the deal duly sealed over a convivial meal washed down with several bottles of local wine, at the Bar Nicolas, on the Rue Grande.

Thereafter, once all the necessary legal formalities had been completed, Alec and Simon become the proud owners of the much decayed _Maison des Colombes_. Not of course that there were any doves, at least not now, with the centuries old, conical roofed, stone _colombier,_ which stood a short distance away from the rear of the house, being in a ruinous condition.

Of course, given how, down the years, Simon's own father had fought tooth and nail to try and keep Downton Abbey in a fit state of repair, let alone Uncle Tom and Aunt Sybil who, in the autumn of 1943, had begun the restoration of the burned out shell of Skerries House, set ablaze by the IRA in January 1921, all three of them could have told Alec and Simon what they were setting in train, what to expect, as well as something of the vagaries of builders.

But, given how things stood between Simon and his immediate family and the fact that he only heard of Uncle Tom and Aunt Sybil and their family when Aunt Edith made mention of them in her breezy, chatty letters, the opportunity to be forewarned did not thus present itself.

* * *

 **Maison des Colombes, St. Paul de Vence, late summer, 1949.**

Some five months' hard work had wrought a remarkable transformation, both inside and outside the hitherto neglected _Maison des Colombes_ which, when fully restored, its new owners fully intended would be opened as a select pensione, run by Simon, and from where Alec could work as an artist although, at least for now, Simon had far more confidence in his friend's capabilities as a painter than did Alec himself.

Standing naked over by the shuttered window of their bedroom, his skin beaded with perspiration, Simon peered out through the slats into the blackness of the night. Quite how long he had been standing here, he didn't know but he was exceedingly thankful for the slow passage of time. For sometimes, and this was one of those occasions, that can be more precious than diamonds. Northwards, from somewhere over the mountains, there came a faint rumble of thunder.

"Si'? What on earth's the matter?"

Hearing Alec's voice, Simon half turned; in the grey dimness, saw Alec now fling back the quilt, before clambering out of bed and, likewise naked, cross the room towards him. A moment later, he felt Alec's arm steal gently about his sun browned shoulders.

"Sorry. Can't sleep. Too hot. That's all".

In the half light, Alec smiled. Prided himself on the fact that after all this time, he could read Simon Crawley like a book. No, that was not all. Far from it. Outside, the thunder reverberated again, louder than before while flashes of sheet lightning lit up the night sky heralding a storm from the north which, given the present circumstances, seemed somehow, singularly appropriate.

"Now, we both know that isn't entirely true. That you can't sleep, I'll concede you that. Even vouchsafe that it's very warm tonight. So, that too. Especially after what we did earlier. That can't have helped. Perhaps we should have both had a cold shower, before settling down!" Alec grinned. At the memory thus stirred, Simon blushed; delightfully so.

"Maybe".

"But that isn't all, is it? Not by a long way". Alec placed his hands on Simon's shoulders.

The other slowly shook his head.

"No. Even if I wanted to, which I don't, not for a single moment, can I ever keep anything from you, can I?" Simon gave Alec a rueful smile.

"So, am I to presume that it's the telegram?"

"Of course. What else? Is it that ruddy obvious?"

"Well, since you ask, **yes**. After all, ever since it arrived here two days ago, and you then sent off your reply post haste, you've been like a cat on hot bricks. What time again?"

"Off the eleven o'clock train from Nice. And then by taxi, all the way up here from Cagnes. Unless ..."

"Unless we drive down there and meet the train. Is that what you mean?"

Simon nodded.

"But not if you don't want to. So you see, this bloody leg of mine does have its uses after all!"

It was now Alec's turn to smile.

The injury to Simon's right leg still pained him;

Although the resulting scar had faded considerably, left presently with a limp, Simon did not feel confident enough to try and drive the second hand, grey, 2CV which they had bought a few weeks ago from off the son of the grocer here in St. Paul. The more so since the road leading to Cagnes was very steep, with several hairpin bends, twisting and turning all the way, down to the coast. So for the foreseeable future, it fell to Alec to do all the driving.

"Are you really that nervous?"

Simon pulled a face.

"Of course I'm bloody nervous! After what happened the last time? Do you blame me?"

"No. And that's a good question".

"What is?"

"What I think. The answer to which is, there's no use fretting over spilled milk. We both knew this day had to come".  
Simon nodded.

"All the same, I ..."

"Why don't you come back to bed?"

Simon nodded; did as he had been asked.

A short while later, lying there in the darkness, within the circle of Alec's arms, listening to the gentle rhythm of his friend's breathing, Simon did his best to try and forget what it was that was troubling him. Only, he found that he couldn't. And when, at last, turning his head yet again, it was to see bright sunlight peeping through the louvres of the shutters, whereupon he realised that he hadn't slept at all.

* * *

This morning, here beneath the exposed beams, rafters and purlins of the newly restored roof, all of which presently smelt strongly of wood preservative, perched on a high stool in front of his easel, set up in what, until recently, had been nothing more than a dusty, decayed attic, now turned into the beginnings of a studio, lost for inspiration, and, if the truth be told, not a little worried about the forthcoming encounter scheduled for later this afternoon, smoking a Gauloise, Alec Foster gazed pensively out through the open window.

The view before him set under a lowering sky, encompassed part of the patchwork of terracotta tiled roofs of some of the old houses huddled within the ancient wall girding the medieval hilltop town. Alec's gaze slid on, past the narrow stone bell tower of the Romanesque collegiate church, beyond the town wall, skirting a grove of slender, dark green, pencil shaped cypresses, saw too the vivid mauve of a field of lavender, thence across the vine clad valley, as far as the distant mountains, the snow covered crests of the Alps already blearing in the early morning heat haze.

Alec's eyes lighted back upon that undulating swathe of roof tiles. On reflection, he was not at all sure that he believed what M. Maysonet had told them about the making of those same tiles in years gone by. Old Maysonet was the local builder whom, along with his two sons Jules and Pierre, Alec and Simon had engaged,to renovate the house which they had bought here in St. Paul; the two Englishmen soon learning that the garrulous, walrus moustached Maysonet was a teller of exceedingly tall tales and Alec suspected that the narrative he had related to them over several Pastis, down at the Bar Nicolas, concerning the manufacture of the roof tiles, was completely made up.

That had been one fine spring evening, several months ago, not long after they had arrived here in St. Paul, following a long day spent working on the south roof of the old house. While most of the heavy work was contracted to be undertaken by Maysonet and his two sons, neither Alec nor Simon were averse to getting stuck in themselves. This despite Simon's injured leg restricting what he could do.

Nonetheless, like a true Crawley, just as he had when they had been working on the canals over in England, Simon made the best of it, working outside, along with Alec, wearing nothing but shorts, the two of them soon burned brown by the heat of the sun, while piling salvaged stone for repairs, stacking sawn timber and new floorboards, mixing buckets of mortar, as well as clearing the garden at the rear of the house. Apart from the ruins of the _colombier_ , the long abandoned _terrain_ was a wilderness, heavily overgrown, a wasteland of long grass, nettles, briar, and thorn, along with patches of thyme, lavender, and wild mushrooms, the haunt of scorpions, snakes, and brightly coloured lizards that also, beneath the shade of one of several old olive trees hid an old, long forgotten well which nearly proved Alec's undoing, only Simon's quick thinking preventing his friend from falling down the shaft when the ground suddenly shifted and gave way unexpectedly beneath his feet. Old Maysonnet saw to it that the mouth of the old well was swiftly boarded over, until a decision could be made as to what was to be done about it.

* * *

It was after the incident of the well, that Simon and Alec decided that, all things considered, it might be better if they spent the rest of the afternoon helping out where they could with work on-going on the house. So, with Pierre having shown them what needed to be done in the matter of re-tiling the south face of the roof, with Simon standing on the rickety wooden scaffolding passing up batches of salvaged tiles to Alec kneeling just above him, balanced somewhat precariously on the bare, new battens, Alec set about replacing the tiles from whence they had come.

That evening, with Maysonet and his sons long since having finished work and gone home to their supper, with the whole sweep of the southern slope of the roof at last re-clad, and said Alec with a self satisfied grin as he surveyed his own handiwork, in a far better state of repair than it had been for many a year, tired but all the same very pleased with the result of their own labours, both he and Simone had clambered down from off the roof.

Thereafter, away from prying eyes, in the privacy afforded them by the courtyard at the back of the house, where they intended to build a loggia, easy in each other's company, embarrassment long since a thing of the past, they had stripped naked, before washing themselves clean with both soap and water. Each took it in turn to work the arm of the old cast iron pump which, until the end of the following week, when the mains supply to the house was finally being brought into use, had served as the only means with which to cook, drink, and wash.

* * *

A short while later, Alec and Simon had made their way down to the Bar Nicolas where, seated at a table outside, they had their own well deserved supper, along with a bottle of red wine. It was after they had eaten their fill, and were sitting companionably together in the narrow street, that they found themselves hailed unexpectedly by old Maysonet who had been out walking his dog; a large mastiff, with a black mask, and which went by the improbable name of Alphonse.

Good manners dictated that they ask M. Maysonet to join them for a drink. Then another. And another. After the fourth _Pastis_ , the old builder began to grow loquacious. With his thick accent, Simon's command of French not yet being as proficient as it was to become, and Alec comprehending only a few words, much of what the builder said went over their heads. However, among other things, he proceeded to regale Alec and Simon as to how, in times past, the roof tiles had been made. _D'autrefois_ , before _la Grande Guerre_ , in which Maysonet himself had fought in the Alps against the _l_ _es autrichiens_ , the tiles had been shaped by moulding the damp, moist clay over women's thighs. Thereafter, the curved tiles were spread out neatly in large batches in fields, in farmyards, and by the roadside, where they were left to bake and dry hard, beneath the blistering heat of the sun.

But, it seemed this was not all M. Maysonet wished to impart. He would have told them in the morning but, why wait until then, they were friends, were they not? As if to reinforce what he had just said, Maysonet placed his arms around both of their shoulders.

"Il y a un petit, un miniscule problème".

A small difficulty had arisen with the renovation.

Just how minute was the problem, M. Maysonet now proceeded to demonstrate, this by holding up his calloused right hand, then closing together the splayed thumb and forefinger, so that the gap between them all but vanished. At that moment an acquaintance of his passed by them in the street, Maysonet calling out a friendly greeting which was duly returned.

Meanwhile, Alec looked at Simon and Simon looked at Alec. Evidently they were thinking the same thing. If _le_ _problème_ was indeed that small, why bother to mention it at all?"

Maysonet turned back to them.

"Alors, mes petits, le problème ..."

"Quoi, exactement?" asked Simon. Then wished he hadn't. M. Maysonet beamed.

"Un nid de frelons ..."

Simon looked blankly at Alec.

"Search me," he said, giving a Gallic shrug, the expansive nature of which was worthy of Maysonet himself.

The builder did his best to explain how matters stood ... by making a loud buzzing sound.

* * *

 **A** **é** **roport de Nice-le Var,** **Alpes-Maritimes** **.**

Thankfully, the flight from Le Bourget in Paris had proved uneventful. But only that was until they reached the Alps when, somewhere over the mountains, the noisy Air France SE.161 Languedoc ran into a severe thunderstorm. Then, if only for a short while, things had become decidedly unpleasant. It was to be hoped that when finally they came into land at Nice, the airliner did not overshoot the runway ... as had happened several months earlier.

* * *

 **Maison des Colombes,** **St. Paul de Vence** **.**

Not bees, as Simon had thought.

Nor wasps, which Alec had then suggested.

Something far worse.

A nest of hornets.

To be precise, two of the blasted things, which Alphonse had found, while sniffing about in the ruins of the _colombier_.

And the following morning, promptly at seven thirty, Maysonet and his two sons turned up at the house to do battle with the hornets.

Or rather Jules and Pierre did.

Both of them were wearing veiled hats and sporting leather gauntlets and boots such as Tom Branson might once have worn. With their shirts well buttoned, the cuffs of which, along with the bottoms of their trousers were tied tightly with string, each man was armed with a pruning hook and carried a large galvanised bucket. Clearly, in the face of such formidably equipped opposition, Simon observed wryly to Alec, the hornets wouldn't stand a chance!

But of Maysonet himself, there was no sign.

Nor, indeed, of the inquisitive Alphonse.

At least for the present, it seemed that both the builder and his dog had unexpected business elsewhere.

* * *

Even before Maysonet and his two sons began work on the restoration of the house, Alec and Simon had adjusted to the daily rhythm of living here in the south of France. Waking to bright sunshine slanting through the shutters of their bedroom and, with the coming of summer, the constant noisy chirping of the cicadas. Then, up, washed, and dressed, followed by an early morning stroll, usually by just one, or else, if the mood so took them, then together, down to the boulangerie for fresh bread for breakfast, to be eaten spread with jam, accompanied by bowls of piping hot, strong, black coffee. Then continuing working on the house and labouring in the overgrown garden, before going down into town again later, or else up to the market in nearby Vence, to buy whatever else they might need for lunch and supper. A simple life, but one which suited both of them entirely; something to which they had long become accustomed.

And here in St. Paul, this morning had been no different, when, a little after seven, leaving Simon dozing fitfully in bed, Alec slipped quietly out of the house and down to the boulangerie. On his return, glancing at the thermometer on the wall beside the kitchen door, he saw that it was already showing 16 degrees; knew that with or without rain, the temperature would climb much further throughout the morning.

Leaving the _baguette_ on the kitchen table, it being Simon's turn to make breakfast, Alec climbed the stairs to the attic, intending to try and make a start on the sketch he had in mind. But now, seated before his easel, inspiration seemed to have deserted him. This business of the telegram ... was getting to him as well. A short while later, there came a clatter of crockery and cutlery as Simon, now up and about, apparently none the worse for his lack of sleep, whistling cheerfully, moved about the kitchen.

"Breakfast!"

"All right, I'll be down in a minute.

However, Alec didn't move. Now saw, through the open window, that outside the sky had turned inky black. And, as the storm finally broke, and it began to pour with rain, from directly overhead, or so it seemed, there came a tremendous clap of thunder, followed almost instantaneously by a loud bang from downstairs. At which point, all the lights went out.

"Bugger it! That's all we need! Today of all days"!" yelled Simon.

* * *

 **Skerries House, County Cork, Ireland, late summer 1949.**

Life was good and had he been asked about it, Tom Branson would have said that he hadn't felt this well in ages.

The air was heavy with the scent of new mown hay, mixed with a salty tang from off the sea. Beneath the cedar tree, from the comfort of his deckchair, Tom sat watching his two eldest grandsons, Daniel and Tomás "helping" old Flaherty to stack sheaves of barley in the field below the house. Now saw Sybil crossing the grass towards him, wearing a straw hat, with baby Patrick, Danny and Claire's youngest, in her arms. A minute later and Sybil sank down wearily in the empty deckchair beside his own. Having made the baby and herself comfortable, she turned her head and smiled.

"It's very, very hot".

"It is, for sure".

Sybil nodded towards the jug of lemonade standing on the wicker table between them.

"I think I'm about ready for a glass of that. Honestly, I don't know how Claire does it. A full time job as a doctor and a mother to six! And if I'm not very much mistaken it will be seven in the new year!"

Tom raised an eyebrow.

"For sure?"

Sybil nodded.

"I told you I had my suspicions!"

Tom smiled. He leaned over, picked up the jug, and poured her a glass of lemonade.

"Witch! Mind yous, I can't say I'm surprised. Danny's a very lucky man". Tom looked towards where Thirza, Danny and Claire's daughter, now aged two, sat playing on the grass with a daisy chain.

"Thank you". Sybil took a sip of lemonade and sank back in her chair.

"My pleasure!"

"So, what do you think?" Sybil nodded towards the letter lying in Tom's lap and which he had read to her earlier that same afternoon.

"Ah, a dangerous question, for sure!"  
"Asking you what you think?"

Tom nodded. Looked down again at the letter.

"What I t'ink, is that there will be fireworks".

* * *

 **Gare de Cagnes, Cagnes-sure-Mer, Alpes-Maritimes, France,** **late summer 1949.**

Leaving Lefèvre, the local electrician, scratching his head, trying to ascertain just what possibly could have gone wrong with the new wiring, Alec and Simon set off for Cagnes. When, shortly after midday they arrived at the station, in the village where the painter Renoir had spent the last years of his life, it was just in time to see the train from Nice drawing away from the platform, bound for Antibes.

And, it was still raining.

Having parked the car, side stepping the large puddles pooling in the gravel of the forecourt, Alec but a fraction behind him, on reaching the station building Simon pushed open the door of the shabby salle d'attente and limped inside.

A moment later, with Alec now beside him, Simon came to an abrupt halt.

 **Author's Note:**

For the rescue of Hope during the sinking of the _Lancastria_ , Isaac Solomons, the Zhdanovs and their son, Dimitri, see _The White Cliffs Of Dover_.

The main line of the Grand Union Canal links Birmingham with London. Foxton Locks are a series of ten "staircase" locks, the largest such flight on the English canal system; used where a canal has to climb a hill, each lock opening directly into the next. Opened in 1813, Bosworth Tunnel is 1166 yards in length.

Strapping _-_ to moor.

The cut - canal.

The Republic of Ireland Act 1948 declared the country to be a republic and its President its Head of State, in place of King George VI. These changes came into force in April 1949, on the 33rd anniversary of the Easter Rising.

For Simon's bravery during the war, see _The White Cliffs Of Dover_.

 _l_ _es autrichiens -_ Austrians.

The accident at Nice Airport occurred in April 1949, involving the same type of 'plane. Fortunately there were no injuries but the airliner was written off as beyond repair

For the last twelve years of his life, the French Impressionist painter, Pierre-Auguste Renoir (1841-1919) lived just outside Cagnes. The house where he lived and died, recently restored, is now a museum.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Of Family And Friends

 **Mombassa, British Crown Colony of Kenya, early summer, 1949.**

Being the rainy season, as might be expected, it was wet but, with the climate here in Kenya being tropical, it was also very humid.

Down on the coast, on the shores of the Indian Ocean, in Mombassa, in Kilindini Harbour, aptly named given its great depth, nearly thirty fathoms at its deepest point, a grey veil of rain had descended; the large, fat drops falling heavy and leaden on the Arab dhows, the steam tugs, cargo vessels, and passenger ships. Drumming a discordant cacophony on the corrugated sheeting of the roofs of the buildings lining the waterfront, gurgling along the gutters, and echoing noisily in the down pipes, splashing on the fronds of the palm trees, spattering on the tarpaulins covering the dozen or so open railway wagons standing on the quayside, pattering in the puddles, runnels of dirty, ochre coloured water swirling across the surface of the quay, pouring over the edges of the harbour walls, down into the sea, and muddying the hitherto pristine turquoise of the ocean.

On the boat deck of the Union Castle Line's _Capetown Castle_ , over by the ship's rail, sheltering beneath her umbrella from the incessant downpour, although in reality oblivious to the pouring rain, an elegantly dressed, white woman stood watching disinterestedly as the very last of the passengers came on aboard the liner, while at the same time one of the massive harbour cranes swung down into the cavernous hold, the final few items of cargo.

A short while later, if only briefly, the rain ceased and the tattered clouds dispersed, the now dazzlingly blue sky looking for all as if it had been freshly laundered clean. Eventually, it began to grow dark and, with the last of the cargo now safely loaded, the hatches secured, the gangways withdrawn, the heavy mooring lines cast off, the anchor raised, the dark green waters beneath the stern frothing and seething like liquid in a boiling cauldron as the twin screw propellers began to turn, there came an enormous blast from the ship's hooter.

Moments after, the lavender hulled liner was swiftly putting out to sea, trailing in her wake a carpet of white sea foam, heading north along the east coast of Africa, bound for the Gulf of Aden, the Red Sea, and then the Suez Canal.

* * *

By the time the twinkling lights of Mombassa had dwindled to nothing more than mere pinpricks of light, before finally disappearing altogether over the now invisible horizon, those other passengers coming up on deck after dinner, found the night sky ablaze with stars, saw too, the woman, still standing by the ship's rail, staring out into the darkness, back towards the vanished coastline of Africa.

And it was only now, as the night lengthened, and a red moon rose high over the wide, flat, calm waters of the Indian Ocean, that finally the woman turned away and went back down inside to her cabin.

* * *

 **St. Paul de Vence, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.**

As the rain continued to drive hard against the windows, here in in the shabby salle d'attente the silence lengthened. Being sat motionless in the front passenger seat of the 2CV all the way down here, on the twisting, turning road leading from St. Paul, had not helped Simon's injured knee. Standing still like this only made it worse. And though he would have wished it otherwise - for he thought to be the first to make a move or speak implied some form of weakness on his part - it now fell to him to do just this.

"If you don't mind, I know I'd much rather prefer it if I ..."

* * *

 **Skerries House, County Cork, Ireland, late summer 1949.**

While Tom and Sybil were still sitting, talking, seven year old Ailis, the youngest and last of their brood, ran across the grass to ask if she could go and join _Dan_ and _Tommy_ down in the barley field.

"Oh, please, Ma!" wheedled Ailis.

Sybil shook her head. Like her cousin Rebecca had been at the same age, Ailis was turning into a real tomboy which, given the prevalence of males here at Skerries was, perhaps, hardly surprising. This and the fact that Sybil had brought both of her daughters up to believe they were equal in all things to their brothers.

"Darling, I really don't think that's a very good idea".

"Why not?"

"Because it's very hot. And it's dirty and dusty down there".

"I don't mind, Ma, really".

"No, darling".

"But I want to!"

"No. Perhaps, when your older".

"Tommy's only nine. Please, Ma!"

"Ailis, I said, no!"

The little girl fixed her mother with a mutinous stare. Now, folding her arms, legs planted firmly apart on the grass, Ailis stood her ground.

"Don't you look at me like that, young lady!"

"Oh, Ma!"  
"Oh Ma nothing!"

How many times down the years, wondered Sybil, had she repeated those very same words to each and every one of her five children?

"I'll run away, I will! Then yous be sorry!"  
"Fine. The road's over there!"

Like two peas in a pod, thought Tom. Ever the peacemaker, he now intervened to try and pour oil on troubled waters. Reaching out, he pulled his youngest to him, and sat Ailis on his knee.

"Now, me darlin', what yous be wantin" to be runnin' away for? In case yous be forgettin', yous be leavin' your poor old Da here all on his own".

This gave Ailis pause for thought. Like Saiorse, Ailis loved her Da very much.

"Yous could come with me, Da," she said brightly.

"T"at I could but, I'd need to have a bite to eat first. No sense us settin' off on a long journey on an empty tum now, is there?"

That sounded a sensible suggestion.

"No, Da".

"Now why don't you help Thirza make another daisy chain?"

* * *

"Fireworks?" echoed Sybil. "Why fireworks?"

Even though she had done as she had been asked, now seated contentedly on her Da's knee, resting her head on his shoulder, Ailis was quietly plotting just where she and her Da might go when they left Skerries, Tom smiled, but not at Sybil. Instead, amused, he was watching one of Flaherty's men who, following doggedly in the wake of both Daniel and Tomás, was, unobtrusively, tidying up their boyish efforts at making sheaves.

"Sorry? What did yous say?"

"I was asking you, why you thought there would be fireworks?"  
"Well, darlin', remember what happened, the last time?"

"Yes, I do. And?"

"Well ..."

"But this is different, Tom, surely?"

Their conversation was interrupted by a car pulling to a stand behind them on the gravel of the forecourt. Sybil turned her head; saw Claire, now back from her rounds, climb out.

"And speaking of fireworks ..."

Sybil nodded over towards where Danny and Dermot, with Rober' and Josef in tow were walking back up to the house from the motor repair workshop Danny had set up in the old stables. Even at this distance, it was obvious that both the lads were decidedly grubby. On seeing his mother, letting go of Dermot's hand, Josef ran like the wind to meet her, Claire sweeping him up in her arms, covering the little boy with kisses. A moment later, she realised the filthy state in which he was.

"Daniel Branson! Is this what you call _looking after_ him? Honestly!"

Tom and Sybil exchanged amused glances.

* * *

Long before Claire ever fell in love with Danny, let alone married him, the very first time she met her, which had been at Rob and Saiorse's wedding, back in July 1940, Sybil realised that in Claire Barton, she had found a kindred spirit. Someone who, like herself, had a no nonsense approach to life. Something which, in the comparatively short time she herself had been working as a GP here in Ireland, had endeared Claire to her patients, both young and old.

Later, standing on the front steps of Skerries, holding Ailis by the hand, with Claire with Patrick in her arms and a now clean Josef beside her, Sybil watched, as accompanied by Daniel and Tomás, with Thirza on his shoulders, Tom walked slowly back across the greensward, towards the distant house.

"Looking at him, it's so very hard to believe that there's anything at all wrong".

Claire nodded.

"True enough, but you know as well as I do, that sooner or later ..."

"But he says he feels so much better".

"Sybil, it's only a temporary reprieve. The walls of his heart are like paper".

"So you don't think we should ..."  
"Go?"

"Well, do you?"  
"I think that if it's what both of you want, then you should do as you see fit. But Tom needs to understand that he musn't undertake any kind of physical exertion. None whatsoever".

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, late summer 1949.**

The morning the letter arrived, Matthew was away in Switzerland, in Geneva, assisting with matters of a legal nature, appertaining to the winding up of the defunct League of Nations. So as not to run the risk of being gawped at by day trippers, along with David and Emily, Mary had gone out for an early morning ride around the estate. They returned in time to have breakfast with the rest of the family, save that was for the grandchildren whom Mary insisted took their meals in the nursery. To gain access to the abbey they had all to make use of the old tradesmen's entrance, an arrangement which did not please the countess of Grantham one iota, but that continued during the months the house was open to the public.

And there on the table, just inside the back door, with stamps bearing the legend _Kenya, Tanganyika and Uganda,_ postmarked _Nairobi,_ lay the letter.

* * *

 **La Rosière, near Nantes, France, late summer 1949.**

"I can't help but think, that this isn't a very good idea," said Edith setting her teacup back in its saucer. She signalled to the maid, Pascalle. "Yes, Pascalle, you may clear away now". Conversation languished while the girl removed the tea things, resuming once she had quitted the terrace.

"Even if it ends the rift between Simon and his mother?" asked Friedrich.

"But will it? I somehow doubt it".

"Well, unless someone tries to do something about it ..."

Seated out here on the terrace in the warm sunshine, with Hope lying at his feet on the flagstones, Kurt said nothing. He knew that, towards the end of the war, his cousin Simon Crawley had left Downton under something of a cloud; remembered his mother being terribly upset after Simon had spent some time talking with her in the Drawing Room at Crawley House, where the Schönborns had then been living in exile.

However, at the time, Kurt himself had been but eleven years old, still reeling from the death of his adored elder brother, Max, to be that concerned about the doings of a cousin whom he liked well enough, knew to be very brave, having been awarded a medal by King George VI - Max had told Kurt all about that - but to whom he was not at all close.

And when thereafter, as Kurt grew older, on the odd occasion he had asked Mama why it was that no-one up at the Big House ever now spoke of Simon, his mother had merely smiled, ruffled his hair, and said that it was _a bed of nettles_ , but that she would tell him all about it ... one day. Only that day never seemed to come. So now, with the matter - whatever it was - presently openly under discussion between his parents out here on the terrace, Kurt asked once again what it was that had happened. At which point, he saw Papa and Mama exchange cautious glances.

"He's a right to know," said Friedrich softly. "After all, if he ..."

"Mama?" Kurt looked at his mother.

"Perhaps we shouldn't go into these things ..." began Edith.  
"Mama, I'm fifteen. What was it that Simon did that was so awful that Uncle Matthew and Aunt Mary told him he had to leave home?"

Mama shook her head.

"Simon wasn't told to leave home. He chose to do so himself".

Edith steeled herself for the inevitable next question, which Kurt now duly asked.

"Why?"

When finally she answered him, Edith chose to do so obliquely.

"Darling, you remember how much Max loved Claire?"

Kurt blushed; then nodded.

"Yes". Of course. How could I not know that?"

"Well, then ..."

While Kurt might be an innocent, he had seen evidence of love aplenty, not only between his own parents, but also between Max and Claire. He knew it involved a lot of kissing - there had been a lot of that, Max and Claire kissed all the time - which until that never-to-be-forgotten day when Mama had explained how it was they came into being, Kurt had supposed led to babies being made. He had tried to ask Max about this too, but for once, in fact for the only time in his life that he could ever remember, Max had shaken his head and refused to be drawn on the subject; other than to say that it was all _great fun_. And that if Kurt really wanted to know, he should ask Mama.

So, when without warning, Cathy Ellis had seized hold of Kurt and kissed him hard on the lips behind the bicycle shed at the village school in Downton, Alfie Simmonds having told Kurt that kissing led to babies, Kurt, aged all of nine years old, had been terrified that Cathy would have a baby. **His** baby. It was with this horrifying prospect dangling before him that Kurt had done as Max had suggested earlier and, summoning up every ounce of courage he possessed, had told Mama all about Cathy, her unwanted kisses, and that he didn't want to be a father.

At least, not just yet.

Whereupon, Mama had laughed, promptly sat him on her knee and proceeded to explain just how it was that babies were made. Not that at the time, Kurt had quite believed her. He couldn't imagine Max and Claire doing something like that, let alone Papa and Mama which, presumably they must have, for Max and he to have come into being. And then Claire had given birth to Josef, his little nephew, stopped being fat, and, said Max with a laugh and a wink, no longer waddled like a duck. So, it seemed that Mama had been telling him the truth and that little Josef had been there all the time in Claire's tummy.

What Mama now explained was that cousin Simon had a chum called Alec, whom he too had met during the war and with whom he wanted to spend his life, just as Max had wanted to be with Claire. Of course, this came as a complete revelation to Kurt. Something of which, apparently, Uncle Matthew and in particular Aunt Mary had not approved. Quite why this should be so, Kurt didn't fully understand, although on this matter, Mama now refused to say anything further. After all, there were, thought Edith, some things which were best left unsaid. For example, how it was that Mary had contrived matters so, that an innocent man ended up serving a prison sentence for a crime which he had not committed. However, she knew that Kurt was very fond of his Aunt Mary and she of him, not least because of the part Kurt had played in helping to end the famous Siege of Crawley House during the war. It would not do to shatter all of his illusions. At least, not now.

Yet despite what he had now learned, which was considerably more than he had known before today's revelations, for the life of him, Kurt still couldn't see why it was, that if two people, in this instance two young men, wanted to live together, that they shouldn't be allowed to do so. Yet, in England, had said Mama, the law made it a crime, and which was why, Simon and Alec were now living over here, down in the south of France.

And there the matter now rested.

Kurt nodded and said his thanks. Hoped fervently that one day he too would find someone whom he could love and would love him just as much as Max had loved Claire and she had loved him. Not of course that he could ever imagine that happening. At least not for a very long time. After all, first he had to complete his schooling. And then it was expected he would go to university; either here in France, to the Sorbonne, or else up to Cambridge or Oxford, over in England.

* * *

 **Skerries House, County Cork, Ireland, late summer 1949.**

Tonight, with the younger members of the Branson family already having eaten their fill earlier in the kitchen, all now upstairs in bed and, hopefully, asleep, the adults were themselves seated together around the table in the dining room, having supper. Here at Skerries, meals were always much more convivial, far more informal affairs than ever had been the case at Downton; the business of eating, interspersed with a great deal of talking, and above all, laughter.

"So, what do you t'ink, Da? I mean ... about Aunt Mary coming here to Ireland, on her own?" asked Danny, between mouthfuls of stew.

"Well, that's just where you're wrong. She won't be on her own. Cousin Emily is coming over with her," said Sybil. "Claire, darling, do you want some cabbage?"

"Yes, please. Thank you".

"What I mean, Ma, is, **without** Uncle Matthew". Danny enunciated each of his words carefully and slowly. "Da?"

"Son, you're the second person to be askin' me what I t'ink. I'm very glad to hear that these days, my opinion still counts for something!" Tom chuckled.

"Of course it counts," said Sybil, patting his hand. "You know it does. And always will".

Tom smiled; grasped Sybil's hand and raised it straightway to his lips.

"Ah me darlin'! T'ank you for those very kind words".

"Less of your blarney, Mr. Branson, if you please," laughed Sybil, now retrieving her hand from Tom's grasp and taking a sip of water.

"Oh? So, who was the other?" Danny lofted an enquiring brow.  
"Who do yous t'ink? Your Ma, of course".

Sybil cleared her throat.

"Yes, and, if you don't mind, we'll have no more talk on that particular subject".

"What subject?" persisted Danny.

Sybil shook her head emphatically.

"Danny, as I just said, no more! And Dermot, I'd very much prefer it if you don't slouch".

"Yes, Ma". This from Dermot who, promptly sitting up, ramrod straight, winked broadly at Danny, both of the brothers knowing full well that while here at Skerries informality reigned, at times, Ma could be just as much a stickler for good manners as was their Aunt Mary over in England. The more so when Ma had something else on her mind. As was often the case and clearly was so now.

"All right, Ma". Danny nodded as he and Claire exchanged amused glances across the table. Sometimes it was as if he was but five years old, instead of a man of nearly thirty, with his own business, twice married, and with a stepson and five young children of his own.

"But, as to what yous just asked," said Tom, at the same time passing Claire the bowl of potatoes, "given the fact that at long last we've got rid of the British king and replaced him with our own Head of State, I t'ink your Aunt Mary imagines she is coming over to a country like France was back in 1792, in the months after the execution of Louis XVI. That the whole place is seething with bloodthirsty revolutionaries!"

"Well, compared to rural Yorkshire, it probably is!"

Sybil's matter-of-fact pronouncement made everyone around the table laugh; even young Dermot who, of those gathered here tonight had little first hand knowledge of his Aunt Mary of whom, given what he had heard tell of her, was somewhat in awe. Imagined her to be very much like the old queen over there in England and who bore the same name.

"It'll be good to see Lady Grantham and Emily again. We haven't see them since we were married, have we, darling?"

"No," said Danny, amused to hear Claire still refer to Aunt Mary as _Lady Grantham_.

"Neither have we," said Sybil.

Which was true enough, as the last time the Bransons, the Crawleys, and the Schönborns were together had been in the autumn of 1945, over in England, down at Ugborough in Devonshire where, except of course for the ever absent Simon, they had all met up for Danny and Claire's wedding.

And now, later this same year there was to be yet another family wedding, again over in England, but this time at Downton, when Matthew and Mary's elder daughter, Rebecca married David Braybourne, old Robert's godson. Along with Matthew, having, returned from the Far East in the spring of 1948, after trying to find out what had become of his uncle and aunt following the Japanese occupation of Malaya, finding no trace of them, save for their ruined rubber plantation, David and Rebecca were agreed that after their wedding they would settle in England. Quite where that would be, remained unclear; only it would not be at Downton.

"Mind yous, it would have been nicer still if Rob and Saiorse and the children could have come over too".

"Well, someone has to stay at Downton and mind the fort!" laughed Tom. "Anyway, we'll be seeing them in the autumn, at David and Rebecca's wedding".

Danny nodded, still mindful of the fact that so far, no-one had seen fit to explain just why it was that Uncle Matthew wasn't coming here to Skerries.

* * *

 **Biarritz, southwest France, late summer 1949.**

The white walled villa belonging to Pyotr Nicolaevitch and his wife Olga still stood, just as it had always done, close to the splendid Hôtel du Palais, on the north side of Biarritz, directly facing the Atlantic Ocean. Seated here in the quiet of the Zhdanovs' Drawing Room, through the open windows, the sound of the waves, breaking on the beach below the villa, was clearly audible; reminding Edith of the last time Kurt and she had been here, back in the summer of 1940, when they had been on the run from the Germans. Now, for the first time since the end of the war, along with Friedrich, here they were again.

"And here," said Olga, "is someone I would like all of you to meet".

Seated beside his mother, Kurt looked up ...

* * *

 **Crossbarry Station, County Cork, Ireland, late summer 1949.**

Just over half an hour or so later, the train from the station down on Albert Quay in Cork pulled into the mist shrouded, deserted platform at Crossbarry.

The two young men with whom they had been forced to share a compartment, and who, without much success, had tried very hard to engage Emily in conversation, now came to the aid of both mother and daughter and helped them with their luggage. That done, with a nod and wink, wishing both of them _top of the morning_ , the men climbed back on board the train. There was a whistle from the engine and the train of creaking, elderly carriages puffed off into the mist.

Save for the incessant cawing of rooks in a cluster of elm trees bordering the line, all was now silent. In his recent letters to Matthew, now that Ireland had become a republic, Tom had painted a picture of a veritable Shangri-La. Mary sighed. She really ought to have known better. Did anything ever go aright in this benighted country? Evidently not. A solitary sheep appeared at the far end of the platform, bleated its seeming agreement before turning, trotting across the railway line, and, like the departed train, vanishing into the mist.

"Well," Mary said resignedly, contriving a smile for Emily, "at least it isn't raining".

"Aunt Sybil said **this** is where we had to change?" Looking about her, at both the desolate platform and the crumbling station building, Emily sounded clearly disbelieving.

"Yes, although I must confess when she telephoned Downton I wasn't really listening".

"So, what do we do now, Mama?" asked Emily, seating herself on top of the steamer trunk which, along with the rest of their luggage had been deposited by the two young men, none too ceremoniously, on the weed-grown platform.

"Heavens knows! Maybe there's a telephone and we can call the house. Or else, perhaps find a cab".

"A cab, Mama?" Emily sounded doubtful.

Somewhere a door banged and an elderly man appeared outside the station building. Attired in a railway uniform which had clearly seen better days, he shuffled across the platform and came to a stand before them.

"Top of the morning to yous, missus ..." Mary grimaced. She had had quite enough of this nonsense.

"We're for Skerries House".

"Eh?"

"Skerries House? Surely, you have heard of it?"

The old man scratched his head.

"Ah, Skerries, yous say! Yes, to be sure!"

Progress at last thought Mary who adopted the tone she normally reserved for those she considered her social inferiors, as well as the half witted, and which, therefore, encompassed most of the human race.

"What ... time ... is ... the ... next ... train ... to ... Kinsale?" she asked, enunciating each word both slowly and loudly.

"Kinsale train, for sure?" The old man scratched his head again.

Dear God, thought Mary, I'm not asking you to give me your opinions on the origins of the universe.

"Yes".

"Ain't one".

"There isn't a train to Kinsale?"  
"No, missus. Not since '31".

"31?"

"1931. T'at's when they shut the line".

"Would ... you ... call ... us ... a ... cab ... then, please".

"A cab, missus?"

"Yes, a motor ... cab?"

"Aint one. No 'phone neither". The old man shrugged apologetically and then, without further ado, wandered off whence he had just come.

Realisation suddenly dawned on Mary. Sybil had said something about having them met off the train by motor. So, where on earth was it? The answer to her unspoken question now came from beyond the station building where, in a spray of gravel, a car screeched to a halt and two people, a woman and a young man clambered out and hurried onto the platform. On seeing who it was, Mary could not contain her relief.

"Oh, thank God! Sybil, darling!" Realised at the same time and with a distinct sense of shock that it was she who had been driving the motor. Now remembered that Danny had recently taught his mother how to drive.

"Darling, hello!"

The two sisters embraced and kissed. A moment later, without thinking, Mary wrinkled her nose.

Sybil grinned.

"Yes, sorry about that. Some of Flaherty's blasted sheep got out and blocked the road. Dermot and I had to stop and help get them back in the field," she explained, now picking tufts of wool from off her raincoat. "Dermot, please to remember your manners".

"Yes, Ma". The young man who had been standing a few paces off now smiled, pulled off his cap, moved forward. "Hello, Aunt Mary". Dermot bestowed a perfunctory kiss on his aunt's cheek then wondered if he should have done so. Stepped back again.

"Dermot! My, how you've grown. Why, the last time I saw you, you were about ..." With her right hand, Mary indicated someone the size of a circus midget.

"I'm seventeen now", Dermot said, drawing himself up to his full height.

"Why, so you are". Mary's eyes narrowed. She was not used to being interrupted. Obviously, it was a trait that ran deep in the Branson family. Saiorse, Dermot's older sister, and Mary's own daughter-in-law, was just the same.

"And yous must be my cousin, Emily?"  
Emily nodded. Likewise smiled. Dermot darted forward, this time far more confidently. Kissed his cousin on the cheek. Drew back again and grinned.

"Hello, Dermot!" Emily said breathlessly, her eyes sparkling, before hugging and kissing her Aunt Sybil.

"Where's Tom?" asked Mary.

"Back at the house. When he woke up this morning, he didn't feel very well, so Claire told him to stay in bed and rest".

As managing as ever, thought Mary. And now, having qualified as a doctor with more than ample justification to give free rein to her disposition to be so.

All these years later, Mary was still firmly of the opinion, not being privy to the circumstances, that it was Claire Barton who, even if she was an excellent horsewoman, something which endeared her at least a little to Mary, had inveigled darling Max into her bed and, after his untimely death, had done exactly the same with Danny Branson. In fact, nothing could have been further from the truth.

"Not serious, I hope?" asked Mary solicitously.  
"Oh, you know ..."

But before Sybil could explain any further, as to what exactly it was that was wrong with Tom, it began to rain, whereupon Sybil immediately became practical. Eyeing the luggage standing forlornly over on the platform, she looked first at Dermot, and then at Emily.

"Now, can you two manage that trunk between you? Mary and I can see to the suitcases".

Travelling without a maid was one thing - fashions were far less complicated than they had been and, at a pinch, if need be, Emily could help her dress - but seeing to their own luggage was an entirely different matter.

"Carry our own ..." spluttered Mary.

"Yes".

"Honestly, Sybil, I don't see why we ..."

"Well it's either that or else it stays here. All of it. So, which is it to be?" asked Sybil, disbelieving the evidence of her own ears. Honestly, she thought, this is 1949, not 1849. And yet despite that being so, as well as two world wars later, it seemed that for Mary nothing had changed. Worried sick about Tom, trying to keep the hotel running, as well as helping see to Danny and Claire's children, let alone Ailis, Sybil was in no mood for any of Mary's aristocratic airs and graces. Her tone towards her eldest sister was therefore brusque, even perfunctory, that which she would once have reserved for a patient one who was proving both difficult and tiresome on one of the wards of the Rotunda up in distant Dublin.

"It's all right, Mama. Dermot, here you take that end ..." Dermot nodded and, without further ado, between them the two young cousins picked up the trunk, carried it over to the motor parked in the station forecourt and loaded it into the boot; Mary and Sybil following on behind, each of them carrying one suitcase apiece. And none too soon, as now with the luggage safely stowed and all of them seated in the Austin, it began to rain heavily. A moment later, and they were off, bouncing down the rutted lane which led to the station and out onto the road, not that Mary could tell where it was the one ended and the other began, driving through the pouring rain, bound for Skerries House.

* * *

Without warning, Sybil swung the motor deftly to the right, to avoid, what she called a _pothole._ Then, just as suddenly, the Austin now lurched left, round a tight bend in the road, splashing through a series of large puddles, and, in the process, startling a couple of sheep grazing placidly in the driving rain beside the verge. Hunched behind the steering wheel, Sybil merely blared hard on the horn.

"Get of the damned way! Feckin' sheep!" Sybil glanced across at her son. "I think we'd better stop at Flaherty's on the way and let him know there are still some of them out and about".

Dermot nodded.

"Yes, Ma".

Ahead of them, in the middle of the road, out of the grey curtain of falling rain. there now suddenly loomed another _feckin'_ sheep which, no doubt forewarned by its compatriots by the local bush telegraph as to just who it was who was seated behind the wheel of the approaching, speeding motor, now scrambled hastily over the stone wall bordering the road. A wise decision as, blaring the horn, the wipers swishing back and forth, and with the countryside passing by them in a watery blur, without slackening speed for an instant, unperturbed, Sybil pressed on back to Skerries House.

Sitting in the front seat beside his mother, Dermot thought some form of explanation might be needed. And this, he now proceeded to give. Turning in his seat, he smiled, first at his aunt, and then at his cousin.

"Ma likes to drive fast".

"Yes, so I've noticed". Mary grimaced; sat back hard in her seat, and, for the umpteenth time, set about straightening her hat.

Dermot winked broadly at Emily. "Ah, don't yous be worryin', Em'! Ma knows the roads round here like the back of her own hands".

Crammed in beside her mother on the back seat of the motor, Emily merely grinned at Dermot. No-one had ever called her Em' before. Of course, Mama would not approve; any more than she approved of _Rob_ instead of _Robert_. This apart, Em' had no doubt, none whatsoever, that this trip over here to Ireland, to stay with Uncle Tom and Aunt Sybil, at Skerries House, was going to be the most enormous fun.

* * *

 **Port Suez, Suez Canal, early summer 1949.**

Four bells.

Here, at the northernmost tip of the Red Sea, the pitiless heat of the Arabian sun was, for the present, at least made bearable, by a patchwork of high white cloud. On the boat deck of the _Capetown Castle,_ seated out in the warm sunshine, the same woman who, some seven or so days earlier, had stood watching the dwindling lights of Mombassa vanish over the distant horizon, now glanced at her wristwatch which showed it was two o'clock in the afternoon.

Laying aside the letter, one among several which she had been writing, to both family and to friends, she stood up, crossed over to the ship's rail, from where she gazed across the sparkling blue waters of the Red Sea, at the huddle of buildings and harbour installations which made up Port Suez. Among the palm trees, she caught sight of the dome and minaret of a small mosque, the whitewashed mud walls of a huddle of flat roofed houses close by which, from off one of several wooden jetties, a group of Arab boys were fishing, while others were swimming in the water, but keeping well away from the wash of the large cargo and passenger ships passing in and out of the broad waters of the Suez Canal.

For those on board the _Capetown Castle_ there now lay a journey of one hundred and twenty miles, a fifteen hour voyage, along the broad, straight channel that formed the canal, from Port Suez, across the wide expanse of the Bitter Lakes and Lake Timsah, passing Ismailia off the port bow, until, at last, the Mediterranean was reached, at Port Said.

* * *

 **Port Said, Suez Canal, early summer 1949.**

Eight bells.

The voyage through the canal had proved singularly uneventful; even somewhat tedious. Apart from the presence of other shipping, there was nothing to be seen, save for the barren, windswept desert stretching away as far as the eye could see. From time to time, swathes of palm trees broke the monotony of the desolate landscape, planted along the banks as windbreaks, in order to try and lessen the chances of sand being blown into the canal. Occasionally, as at Port Suez, there were glimpses of another huddle of mud-walled buildings, patches of dry grass scorched by the heat of the noonday sun, yet more palm trees, a convoy of British army lorries, and, out in the desert, strings of camels and the tents of Bedouin tribesmen.

The _Capetown Castle_ reached Port Said at dusk where, beneath the mauve arch of the sky, bathed in the crimson rays of the setting sun, for those out on deck, if only for an instant, everything hereabouts, the port buildings, the warehouses, the cranes, the ships, the houses, the minarets and domes of the mosques, the palm trees, the sand, the statue of de Lesseps, even the sea itself, seemed to take fire.

Thereafter, having at last quitted the North African littoral, the steamer sailed onwards into the night, across the Mediterranean, bound for distant Genoa.

* * *

 **Close to Menton, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.**

Someone had once said, he forgot who, that one went to Cannes to live, to Monte Carlo to gamble, and here to Menton to die. But, so the story ran, the air of Menton was so efficacious that many invalids who arrived here to spend their last few weeks were surprised to find themselves alive several years later. He hoped that this was true.

Now, as he made his way up yet another of the seemingly endless flights of stone steps, leading from the station to where it was he was now bound, he paused momentarily, turned to look down on the spectacular view spread out below him.

Away to his left, there on the coast, nestled the old town of Menton, a jumble of terracotta tiled roofed dwellings painted in muted shades of ochre, pink, and green, bisected by a labyrinth of dark, narrow, winding, steep, cobbled medieval steps, alleys, and streets, with the Baroque church of Saint Michel and its pepper pot crowned bell tower overlooking the harbour. Somewhat closer at hand, over towards the railway station from whence he had come, a shaft of sunlight caught the golden patriarchal slanted cross set atop the blue onion shaped dome of the town's Russian Orthodox church. Over to his right, there was the headland of Cap Martin, studded with a succession of beautiful, pastel painted, shallow terracotta roofed villas, set amongst a profusion of dark cypresses and umbrella pines, the promontory surrounded on three sides by the sparkling blue waters of the Mediterranean. And there directly before him, just beyond the double line of railway, was the ocean itself; even at this distance the sound of the waves breaking on the narrow, shingle clad shore at Carnoles, and then sucking back with a hiss and a roar of loose pebbles, was clearly audible.

He set off again, up yet more steps, at length, passing through a succession of citrus groves, of both orange and lemon trees, along terraces ablaze and awash with the competing colours and scents of tall purple orchids, Matilija poppies, jasmine, rosemary, lavender, oleanders, and callistemon.

Half an hour or so later, brought him to the high, wrought iron gates of the Villa Artemis, where he presented his card to the porter at the lodge who then telephoned to the house on his behalf.

* * *

 **Villa Artemis, above Menton.**

With the heavy gates unlocked, politely refusing the offer of a lift up to the villa, he set off on foot, through the luxurious gardens, in the middle of which, set within a circular pool covered with water lilies, there played an ornate fountain, complete with a statue of the Greek deity which had given the villa its name. On he went, passing well manicured lawns studded with yet more statuary, and well tended beds of exquisite roses, all the while his step quickening, hurrying along the drive, intent on reaching the house as quickly as possible because, glancing up, he saw that, over the hills behind Menton, towards the Italian border, the sky had turned an inky black.

Beneath the elegant porte-cochere, he was met by the butler, whom he recognised, and who, having taken his hat and coat, now conducted him at once through the silent shuttered house to the Drawing Room with, he remembered, its wonderful view, out over the Mediterranean.

* * *

Here in the elegant Drawing Room of the Villa Artemis, neither the view nor the furnishings had changed. Both were exactly as he remembered them to have been from before the war.

Lying on an elegant French Empire style Recamier upholstered in green brocade, dressed in an exquisite Chinese, floral patterned, silk kimono, belted loosely at the waist, the curve of her breasts clearly visible, Alice de Tourville, comtesse de Roquebrune smiled warmly; beckoned her visitor forward into the beautifully appointed room. Said simply:

"Ah, vous êtes arrivé enfin!"

The man likewise smiled.

"But of course. Did you ever doubt that I would?"

""Non. Jamais".

"Well, then ..."

Outside, unheeded by the two here within, the sky had darkened still further. Ominously so. Then, just as it had done over St. Paul de Vence, the threatening storm now broke with a sudden and savage fury and it began to pour with rain; the dry ground first leopard spotted with a spattering of black, heavy drops raising tiny plumes of dust, that soon became a deluge of streaming water. Now, here in the villa, as it grew dark and the curtains of the room billowed in the strengthening breeze, thunder pealed, and lightning lit the sky, kneeling beside the Recamier, gently, the Englishman reached forward.

Alice didn't resist, as he now drew her into the comforting circle of his strong arms.

"Matthew!"

 **Author's Note:**

In old Swahili, Kilindini means _deep_.

The Union Castle Line - a British shipping line, sailing passenger and cargo ships between Europe and Africa 1900-77.

Founded in 1920 and dissolved in 1947, the League of Nations was the predecessor of today's United Nations,

... the old queen - Queen Mary (1867-1953) the widow of King George V.

Shangri-La - from the 1933 novel, _Lost Horizon_ by James Hilton; the name given to a paradise akin to the Garden of Eden.

The branch line to Kinsale, from Kinsale Junction, later renamed Crossbarry, had indeed closed in 1931.

Rotunda - the Rotunda Hospital, in Dublin; the oldest continuously operating maternity hospital in the world, founded in 1745.

de Lesseps - Ferdinand Marie, Vicomte de Lesseps (1805-1894) French diplomat and architect of the Suez Canal.

Recamier - like a chaise longue


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Letting Go Of The Past

 **Auschwitz, Poland, January 1945.**

"The Russians are coming! The Russians are coming!"

These were the hushed, whispered, disbelieving words that now passed among the handful of pitiful survivors huddled together around the campfire, lit here in the ruins of an abandoned farmhouse close to the camp, and where they were all attempting to take shelter from the bitter winter weather. Most were in a thoroughly wretched state, sick with typhus or else dying of starvation. Included in their number were a young girl and her brother, both of them gaunt, almost skeletal, and who, with their shaven heads wearing the same ragged uniforms, were indistinguishable the one from the other. Like all the rest, the two of them sat silently on the frozen ground, huddled close, not only trying to keep warm, but also attempting to do something infinitely more difficult: to summon up, when all hope had gone, the very last ounce of will power to stay alive until liberation dawned.

Time passed.

Someone died.

Then another.

Each of them a nameless number, the figures of which had been tattooed indelibly into the skin of their left forearms.

And then, at last, those that were still able to do so, heard it.

Faintly at first, but all the while growing ever louder: the grumbling rumble of heavy vehicles drawing nearer, then a sudden burst of shooting, mingled with shouts and voices. Hearing at last a language spoken other than German.

Now, beneath a pall of filthy black smoke yet still rising from those camp buildings either blown up or else set on fire by the retreating SS, from out of the falling snow, dressed in white camouflage, mounted on shaggy ponies, there emerged a gaggle of uniformed figures.

The Red Army had arrived.

Liberation was at hand.

And with it, life over death.

* * *

 **Villa Artemis, above Menton, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.**

After yesterday's violent thunderstorm, this morning, here in the sun drenched gardens surrounding the villa, everything looked and smelled so fresh just as if it had been washed clean, much like the sky over Mombassa in far distant Kenya; the vivid blaze of contrasting colours of the shrubs and flowers seeming so much more intense, and the manifold competing scents so much more fragrant, than had been the case upon his arrival here the previous day.

After partaking of a leisurely breakfast, they had taken a gentle stroll together, arm in arm, down through the wet gardens, as far as the obelisk which stood at the furthest reach of the estate and which had been erected, so Alice told him, while they stood and contemplated it, to commemorate when Menton had become part of France. Here, overlooking the Mediterranean, she had suggested they sit. and for the next hour or so they had sat companionably together, chatting, gazing quietly out over the wide expanse of the ocean while below them both Menton and Cap Martin shimmered in the morning heat haze, so much so that the villas on the distant headland seemed to float above their reflections mirrored in the sea.

Eventually, Alice had admitted that she had a confession to make.

"Which is what?" Matthew asked, clearly surprised, now turning his head to look at her once more. He smiled. "Darling, in case it has escaped your notice, I'm not a priest. Neither in your church nor mine. In any event, we Anglicans don't go in for that sort of thing. But all that apart, I don't imagine for a single minute that you've ever done anything remotely bad enough that you need to make confession of it to me. Or, for that matter, to anyone else".

Alice ghosted a thin smile. Her reply, when at last it came, was not at all what he had expected it to be.

"Aujourd'hui, pour la première foils, j"ai eu peur," she said softly.

"Really?" Matthew gave her a speculative, sideways look. "But entirely understandable. All the same, a life well spent ..."

"But has it been?"

"Of course it has. And, besides, it isn't over. Not yet". Matthew smiled again; drew her into his arms.

"If only we'd met ..."

Alice nodded.  
"Before we did? Yes".

She let him take her hands in his; they were as cold as ice, bloodless.

"Your frozen through. Here ..." Matthew slipped off his pale linen jacket and placed it about her shoulders.

"Merci chéri. If you don't mind, I think I would much prefer it, if we returned to the house," she said, speaking in English, although there was no need for her to do so. Matthew's command of French was more than adequate, even if these days, at least until now, and for the foreseeable future, he had not had the need, nor the opportunity to make use of it.

"That I perfectly understand," he said quietly. "Ne t'inquiète pas". He squeezed her arm gently by way of reassurance".

"Et Marie? And Mary? What does she think about this? About me?"

When Matthew neither answered her, nor made any attempt to move, but instead sat glumly, looking down at the ground, Alice's hand flew to her mouth in consternation.

"Tu ne l'as pas dite? C'est vrai, non?"

"How could I? How could I possibly tell her about ..." Matthew looked up at her with his guileless blue eyes.

Alice smiled.

"Non, mon chéri. Je suppose que non. But, Matthew, you must. For her sake, as much as for mine. Mon Chevalier, sans peur et sans reproche".

* * *

 **Skerries House, County Cork, Ireland, late summer 1949.**

The bulk of the grey stone mansion appeared ahead of them through the worsening weather. Loomed large. Now, as she thought about it, Mary recalled that it had been raining then, too; the last time she had been here ...

* * *

 **Skerries House, 9pm 9th January 1921.**

Despite what they intended doing, all of the IRA men had been so unfailingly courteous.

Even as several of them began liberally dousing the panelling of the Drawing Room and then the Morning Room with petrol, smashing the windows of both so as to create a draught that would fan the flames, having before this seen that she was well wrapped against the cold night air eddying through the now broken windows, they had led her to a chair where, with Danny on her knees, Sybil had sat, seated in the darkened hall of the house. Lending something of a surreal air to the proceedings, moving backwards and forwards about her, others in the group were now quietly doing as she had instructed them, hurrying up and downstairs, removing from the house those personal items which she had asked to be saved ...

* * *

After Sybil, carrying Danny in her arms, had been led through the pouring rain to the comparative safety of the gardener's cottage which stood at a safe distance from the house, there came a tremendous whoosh and roar as Skerries was set ablaze; here in County Cork the blackness of the January night turned into an inferno of pulsing, lurid red and orange flame as what, for over three hundred years had been the ancestral home of the Branson family, was put to the torch ...

* * *

Through the driving rain, the headlights of the Crossley illuminated the way along the twisting, turning, neglected driveway. Moments later, the careering motor swept out from beneath the over arching branches of the trees and, with gravel flying in all directions, screeched to a halt.

"Oh, my God! Sybil!" cried Mary, white-faced, staring in disbelief at the fiercely burning mansion.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, late summer 1949.**

"It's all right, Pickard, I'll answer that". Robert strode purposefully across to the telephone on the table, formerly situated in the hall, and now standing in the passage leading to the old tradesman's entrance, and promptly picked up the receiver. Spoke crisply.

"This is Downton Abbey. Robert Crawley speaking ..."

* * *

 **Skerries House, County Cork, Ireland, late summer 1949.**

Only of course when she had been here last, Matthew had been with her. But now ... They had made love the night before he left, but even then, despite what he had told her, Matthew had seemed, if nor exactly distant, then most certainly _distrait_. And, no wonder.

"Mama, we're here!" Emily's pronouncement jolted Mary out of her reverie just as Sybil brought the Austin to an abrupt stop in front of the rain soaked steps of Skerries House. Turning in her seat, through the driving rain, to her surprise, Mary now saw Tom, along with Ailis, hurrying down the broad sweep of the steps, he unfurling an umbrella. A moment later, they both reached the motor, and Tom opened the door.

"Tom! What on earth are you doing out of bed?" demanded Sybil, clearly not at all pleased to see him both up and about. Climbing out of the driving seat, she proceeded to vent her frustration on the car door, slamming it shut behind her.

"Let's get inside!"

"Don't change the subject! I won't have it, Tom! It's not fair. You know very well what Claire said!"

In the business of being helped by Dermot from the Austin, Mary pretended that she hadn't heard this particular exchange, as indeed did the man himself.

"Mary, darlin'! Emily! Welcome to Skerries. Come inside the both of yous and get dry. Yous must be very tired". Mary smiled at Tom who first kissed her and then Emily on the the cheek.

"Hello, Aunt Mary".

"Hello, Ailis, darling. My, how you've grown!" Standing behind his aunt, unseen, Dermot raised his eyebrows while Mary bent her head and let Ailis kiss her cheek.

"Hello, Emily".

"Hello, Ailis".

The two girls embraced quickly; also hurriedly exchanged kisses.

A moment later and all of them were scurrying quickly up the front steps, intent on being inside as quickly as possible so as to be out of the incessant rain, Tom holding the umbrella over both Mary and Emily. As they walked briskly into the entrance hall, glancing across at Sybil, Tom shook his head.

"Ah, Sybil, darlin', don't be makin' such a fuss! I'm feelin' perfectly fine. And, besides, Mr. Bradley wanted to know all about the fishing here at Skerries. Which bank is best, how far up he can go, and so forth".

"Mr. Bradley?"  
Tom nodded.

"For sure".

"Why couldn't one of the girls have told him that? Or for that matter, Danny?"

"Danny's taken Daniel and Tomás over to Conways'. And besides, what do either Colleen or Nora know about fishing?"

"What do you?" Sybil scoffed. Busyed herself taking off her hat and unbuttoning her coat. "And where are Rober' and Josef?"  
"Both of them are with Claire. She's out and about on her rounds. She's only a couple of calls to make. One at the Toomeys; to see that their youngest's arm is healing properly after the fall he had. The other with old Mrs. Kavanagh. Although Claire says there's no cure for what ails her".

"Which is?"

"Old age, for sure. Claire said seeing the boys might help cheer her up a bit. And before yous ask, Nora's keeping an eye on both Thirza and Patrick. Here, Mary, let me take your hat and coat".

"Why, thank you".

While Tom handed Mary's hat and coat to Ailis, who just as promptly passed them to her mother, Mary stood and looked about her. At the paintings on the walls. Took in the rise and elegance of the main staircase as it climbed its way up through the house. While it was not Downton, Tom and Sybil had wrought a remarkable transformation upon what for over twenty years had been nothing more than a burned out, blackened shell.

"Dermot, do be a good lad for sure, and help your cousin".

"Yes, Da". Dermot winked broadly at Emily.

"It's all right, Uncle Tom. I can manage perfectly well".

"Good manners costs nothing".

"And just who is Mr. Bradley?" asked Sybil looking back at Tom over her shoulder from where she was hanging up all their hats and coats beside the front door.  
"One of our paying guests. He arrived this morning, shortly after yous and Dermot had left for the station. Yous remember. Wrote from Keswick. In the Lake District".

"Now you come to mention it, yes".

"Anyway, that's what he's here for. A week's fly fishing. After both salmon and sea trout. That's his motor parked over there. A beautiful t'ing, to be sure". Tom nodded approvingly through the open front door, in the direction of a bright red MG parked standing opposite the house. Sybil followed Tom's gaze; cast a quick glance through the falling rain at the MG. And once having seen it, suspected almost immediately that Tom's wish to be so helpful to Mr. Bradley had rather more to do with their new guest being the proud owner of a high powered sports car than Tom being so desirous of helping Mr. Bradley out with his enquiries about the best places in which to fish for salmon or sea trout.

"And he also wants to charter a boat".

"Does he now?"

"So I said I'd have a word with old McDaniel down at the harbour in Kinsale. See if he can help, for sure".

"Really? Well, if there's any money to be made in all of this, then I've no doubt at all that Fintan McDaniel will bestir himself greatly and find your Mr. Bradley a boat. Even if it means he has to single handedly raise the _Lusitania_! And this Mr. Bradley ... you say he's come over here for the fishing?"

Tom smiled.

"To be sure".

"Fishing?" repeated Sybil. She shook her head, seemingly in disbelief.

"Yes. Is that so very strange?"

"No, I suppose not".

"Yous _suppose not_? Why do yous _suppose not_?"

"Well, from what I recall Papa telling Danny, all those years ago at Downton, I'd have thought there was plenty of fly fishing to be had around Keswick, without Mr. Bradley coming here to Ireland".

"Perhaps the fish are bigger over here in Ireland!" Tom chuckled at the thought. "Anyway, so long as he pays his bill, does it really matter what he's come here for? Now, what about your luggage?" Tom winked at Mary. "You see, once a chauffeur, always a ..."  
"No, Tom. Danny and Dermot will see to all of that. You need to rest. Doctor's orders!"

Tom pulled a face.

"Darlin', it was just a touch of indigestion, for sure".

"Perhaps. Now, what about a nice cup of tea?"

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, late summer 1949.**

"Who was that on the telephone?" asked Saiorse, now appearing beneath the archway with a trug of cut flowers in one hand and holding Edward by the other.

Robert grinned at her and winked.

"Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies! Who do you think?" He caught her round the waist; pulled her to him and nuzzled her nose.

Saiorse laughed.

"Rob, darling, you can't leave it at that! And? Come on, out with it!"

Each of them knew that during the war the other had strayed.

In Rob's case, with Marie, a girl in the French Resistance, whom he had met whilst on the run after being shot down over France. After Rob had made it safe home to Blighty, later, Marie was caught and shot by the Germans, but not before she had born a daughter, Marianne, now aged seven, whom Robert believed to be his child.

Whatever the truth of this, learning eventually what had happened to her mother, and accepting that he might well be the little girl's father, with Saiorse's full agreement, at the end of the war, Robert had established a trust fund to provide monies for her education and future. Not that Marianne knew her father might be an Englishman yet living; her maternal grandparents, with their dislike of all foreigners, telling her that, like her late mother, her father had been a Frenchman who had been in the Resistance, and who had also been killed by the Germans.

As for Saiorse, she had had an affair with with an American pilot, posted to England, Lieutenant James A. Curtis of the USAAF who was also later shot down, in his case over Germany. After a spell in a POW camp, at the end of the war, without so much as a backwards glance in the direction of Saiorse, Lieutenant Curtis had gone back to the States. To his unsuspecting wife and child, both of whom were as ignorant of the existence of Saiorse, as she was of them. Nor did anyone in the Crawley family ever find out that it was Saiorse's former lover who had been the driver of the unknown military vehicle which had knocked down Max in Downton and so caused the injuries which led to his death.

With the war at an end, Robert and Saiorse made a concerted effort to put all of this behind them. Indeed, so successful were they in this, that their relationship was long since back to what it had been when they had married.

"Well ..."

* * *

 **Villa Artemis, above Menton, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.**

Once again, arm in arm, together, they had slowly retraced their steps back up to the villa, where Alice then went inside to rest.

Sometime later, beneath a cloudless azure sky, seated comfortably in a capacious wicker chair, out on the warm terrace, overlooking the shimmering blue waters of the Mediterranean, with a heavy heart, Matthew surveyed the several earlier attempts he had made at writing the self same letter, all of which lay crumpled and torn on the flagstones beneath the table, and which, when he had brought out fresh coffee, Henriksen had offered to have removed. A kindness certainly, but one which Matthew had politely declined. Picking up his fountain pen, he sighed. Chewing his bottom lip until he drew blood, resignedly, he tried once again to apply himself to the task in hand.

 _Villa Artemis,_

 _Menton,_

 _France._

 _August '49._

 _Dearest Mary,_

 _This must be the hardest letter I have ever had to write in my life but, sadly, there is no way of avoiding, gainsaying, what it is that has to be said ..._

Matthew set down his pen again.

Presumably, by now, Mary would be at Skerries. Thankfully, dearest Tom and darling Sybil would be on hand ... could be relied upon to ... do what was necessary in all of this awful, wretched business. So, when, at last, he finished writing, as finish he must, the letter would be addressed there, instead of to Downton. Matthew glanced at his wristwatch which showed him that it was now just a little after eleven.

Henriksen had told him that the next post went at midday.

* * *

 **Villa Zhdanov, Biarritz, southwest France, late summer 1949.**

Friedrich, Edith and Kurt, all rose to their feet.

"And, here they both are," said Olga brightly. "Everyone, this is Hannah Berger, and her young brother, Stefan. From Leipzig. Now living with their uncle, in Portugal". Olga went on to explain that the Berger's cousin, Gideon, the eldest son of their Uncle Jacob in Lisbon, was a friend of their son Dimitri and who, since the end of the war, had also been studying law at the Sorbonne in Paris.

"Hannah, Stefan, these are our very dear friends, Friedrich and Edith von Schönborn and their son Kurt. From Vienna. And now, living here in France". With Olga having introduced Hannah and Stefan to the assembled company, and introductions now having been made of the Schönborns, Pyotr suggested that they should all sit down but before they did so, Friedrich smiled.

"Very pleased to make your acquaintance. Both of you". He held out his hand in friendly greeting which, after a moment's obvious reluctance, Hannah and then Stefan each shook in turn.

"Now, shall we all sit down?" asked Pyotr once again.

This time, everyone did as Petya had suggested.

"Both of them are about to set sail for a new life in Israel, aren't you my dears?" explained Olga breezily and with a smile. Hannah and Stefan said nothing. It was obvious to one and all that Olga was doing her best to keep the conversation flowing in what were obviously very difficult circumstances. Seeing her struggling to do so, Edith came to Olga's rescue. Like Friedrich, she knew intimately much of what now comprised the State of Israel from archaeological excavations they had undertaken both together and separately out in Palestine before the war.

"In Israel? Whereabouts?" she asked.

"You know it?"  
"Yes. My husband and I are archaeologists. We've undertaken several excavations in Palestine, haven't we, Friedrich?"  
Friedrich nodded.

"In Jaffa". This from Hannah.

"Yes, I know it. On the coast," said Edith.

Stefan nodded.

"Our father's sister and her husband live there".

"Since our parents and brother Meine all died in Auschwitz, there's nothing left for us in Leipzig. Even more so since it's now in the east. Luckily, when Uncle Efraim and Aunt Golda found out that we, that is my brother and I, had survived the camps, they very kindly asked that we go and live with them," explained Hannah. It was the most either of them had so far said. Hannah fell silent. Looked down at the floor.

"I'm ... we're all ... so very, very sorry," said Edith gently.

Hannah looked up.

"Yes, everyone is ... now".

There followed a moment's awkward silence, broken at last by Olga who suggested that, taking Hope along with them, Hannah, Stefan, and Kurt all might like to go for a walk along the beach before supper.

"Yes, that sounds like an excellent idea," said Pyotr briskly. "So you three, shall we say, back here in about an hour?"

The three young people nervously exchanged glances; then thankfully, albeit silently, nodded their agreement to what had been suggested.

* * *

Back in the Drawing Room of the villa, through the window, Olga watched, as with Hope gambolling beside them, Kurt, Hannah and Stefan slowly made their way down onto the beach below the house: the Grande Plage, a long curving sweep of golden sand which stretched all the way from the Hôtel du Palais, once the haunt of European royalty, southwards, as far as Bellevue in the direction of the Port Vieux. Shaking her head in disbelief, Olga sighed.

"Dear God, what those two must have been through ..."

* * *

 **La Grande Plage.**

Oddly enough, what Kurt himself remembered most of that very first meeting with Hannah was her mass of shoulder length raven black hair as well as her two large brown eyes. Yet, while she was dark, her brother Stefan was exactly the opposite. Fair hair and blue eyes. Indeed, almost Nordic in his colouring.

To begin with, the three of them strolled along the beach in a desultory fashion, Kurt slightly in front, while Hannah and Stefan followed on behind, all of them ignoring not only everyone else here on La Grande Plage, but each other too. Of course these days everyone had heard tell of what had gone on in the concentration camps, had heard the accounts of what had been done, had seen the stark photographs, the movie reels, of the horrors therein, but, wondered Kurt, what on earth did one say to someone who had survived something as nightmarish as that? For the time being it didn't seem to matter as, for their part, heads bowed, walking side by side, each keeping pace with the other, Hannah and Stefan seemed disinclined to talk.

It was Hope, her memories of the sinking of the _Lancastria_ evidently long forgotten _,_ excited by the sight of the sea, darting in and out of the ocean, running up to them and shaking herself dry, that helped to break the ice between the three of them with Kurt explaining how it was that she had come to live with them.

* * *

 **Villa Zhdanov.**

While, down there on the beach, the three young people were, presumably becoming better acquainted, over tea, Russian of course, taken with lemon, and served to them by Olga, in glasses held within gilded holders filled from out of a silver samovar, the Zhdanovs and the Schönborns sat and chatted about old times. Of shared, happy memories from before the last war, of darling Max - Edith had brought with her a clutch of photographs of Max and Claire and of little Josef - of the Occupation here in Biarritz, and everyone's hopes for the future. That after this second appalling world war, with its terrible cost in lives lost, a brighter future now beckoned for those fortunate enough to have come through it, including those, like Hannah and Stefan who had survived the camps.

As Edith sat and sipped her tea, glancing again around the familiar room, with its wonderful view of the ocean, she realised that here nothing at all had changed. Indeed, it could have come straight out of a novel by Tolstoy; a glimpse of the Old Russia which had passed into history over thirty years ago following the Bolshevik Revolution in October 1917 and which had deprived the Zhdanovs of so very much.

There on the wall beside the door was the collection of beautiful fifteenth and sixteenth century icons with, hanging before them the lighted red votive lamp. On top of the grand piano there stood a clutch of photographs. Not only of the Zhdanovs, their son Dimitri and his sister Natasha, but also photographs of their lost properties, the grand town house in St. Petersburg and their estate in the Crimea. On the walls, there were pictures of Russian landscapes - the inevitable scenes of both steppes and onion domed churches, along with a large sepia coloured photograph taken in 1913 of the Russian Imperial Family. That very year, 1913, had seen the celebration of the Tercentenary, an event that belonged to a now vanished world, which had commemorated three hundred years of Romanovs on the Russian throne.

Five years later, all of those in the photograph, the Tsar, his wife, and their five children, were dead: shot and bayoneted to death in a semi-basement room of the house in which they were then being held under house arrest.

* * *

"So, when do they both leave?" asked Friedrich.

"The day after tomorrow On the midday express to Madrid. Then by train to Lisbon. After that, in a month or so, by ship to Haifa".

"I wonder how they're all getting along?" asked Pyotr with a laugh.

"More tea?" asked Olga.

* * *

 **La Grande Plage.**

"... on the banks of the Loire, not far from Nantes".

Seated on the rock, Kurt turned his head. Saw that, now barefoot, with his trousers rolled up to his knees, happy as a sandboy and seemingly without a care in the world, Stefan was still standing down by the water's edge throwing sticks into the foaming surf for Hope to run in and retrieve. Knew that Hope would keep on racing into the sea and fetching the sticks, just as long as her new found friend continued to throw them.

"But you are not French, I think?"

"No, as Aunt Olga told you when we met, my parents and I come from Austria. After the Anschluss, along with my brother Max, we escaped first to France, to la Rosière, and then when the war started, over to England, to Yorkshire, where my mother's family live".

"And your brother ... where is he?"

"He died," said Kurt softly.

"Then at least we have something in common," said Hannah.

While it was over six years since Max's death, for Kurt it was still as if it had happened yesterday. What was it that Uncle Tom had said?

" _Death leaves a heartache that no one can heal_ ".

Kurt missed Max dreadfully.

Even now he was not at all comfortable speaking about his much loved brother.

And certainly not in front of strangers.

"If you say so," said Kurt, gazing out to sea.

"And you miss him?"  
"Of course I do". Kurt's voice faltered. His eyes misted.

"Tell me about him ..."

* * *

 **Two days later; Gare de Biarritz-Ville.**

With his both hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets, something of which, had she been there to see it, Mama would not have approved, Kurt stood on the platform watching the departing train until it disappeared out of sight.

"Well," said Dimitri, "that's, that. Time we were heading back".

"Yes, I suppose it is," said Kurt. He kicked at a stray stone on the platform; wondered if he would ever see Hannah again. Despite what had been said, he supposed not.

* * *

 **Villa Zhdanov, Biarritz, later that same day.**

"When last I saw him, he looked a bit _Niedergeschlagen_. I think he said something about going down to the beach with Hope," said Friedrich, laying aside his newspaper.

Edith nodded.

"Then, if you don't mind, I think I'll go and look for him".

"Darling, he might want to be left on his own".

But Edith had already left the room and so didn't hear Friedrich's veiled warning.

* * *

 **La Grande Plage.**

Not that she had to walk very far; soon caught sight of Kurt, standing barefoot, his trousers rolled up, at the water's edge, throwing sticks into the sea, while Hope dashed in and out of the water in search of them.

"Kurt!"

Hearing his mother's voice, Kurt raised his head and smiled.

Edith now drew level with him.

"Here you are".

"Yes, here I am".

"Supper's nearly ready. So, I thought I'd come and let you know. Now, will you walk your old Mama back up to the house?" Edith asked. Was relieved when she saw Kurt nod his head. Rising hastily to his feet, Kurt took hold of her right hand, then brought it quickly to his lips in a beautiful baisse-main, just as Max had done all those years ago, and in very similar circumstances.

Memory stirred.

History repeating itself.

"No, of course not, Mama".

For a moment, their eyes met.

Then Kurt busied himself putting on his socks and shoes. That done, mother and son linked arms, and with Hope trotting beside them, set off slowly along the sands of La Grande Plage, back towards the villa.

"Now tell me, my darling ..."

"Tell you what?"

"About Hannah. Over the last couple of days, the two of you became quite inseparable".

"Oh... yes ... well, not really, Mama. And anyway, she's gone now".

"Yes, she has".

"So, there's nothing more to be said".

But while Kurt did his very best to sound dismissive of Hannah, in his mind's eye he was seeing her as she had looked this morning when they had said their goodbyes at the railway station here in Biarritz.

 _"You'll write?"_  
 _"Of course"._

His mother eyed him curiously.

Just like his brother, Kurt had never been a very good liar. His face always betrayed him. Now, it did so again, Edith realising that what Kurt had just said was completely at variance with how he was really feeling. With the best of intentions, she now tried to soften the pain of parting and, in so doing, seriously misjudged his mood.

"Ships that pass in the night ..."  
At that, Kurt stopped; stood stock still.

"You think so Mama?"

"Yes, I do".

"Well, that's just where you're wrong".  
"Wrong? And why is that?"  
"Because, Hannah's the girl I'm going to marry!"

"Oh, darling! Don't be ridiculous. You hardly know her. And besides, she and her brother are off to start a new life, out there in Israel".

"I don't need you to tell me that!"  
"Oh, Kurt"!  
"I'm not a child any more, Mama! So, don't treat me as if I am!"

At that, snapping his fingers at Hope to follow him, Kurt turned sharply on his heel and set off purposefully back along the beach, towards Pyotr and Olga's villa, leaving Edith to stare in consternation at his retreating form. That he meant what he had just said, she had no doubt at all. None whatsoever. After all, she had seen that look once before ...

And while Kurt was many things, like his adored elder brother, he very much knew his own mind.

* * *

 **Villa Artemis, above Menton, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.**

 _ **...** what a wretched thing this is ... As I told you before, Alice has seen so many doctors, both out there in Africa, in Capetown and Nairobi, and now back here in France. And yet, until now, not one of them has been able to say what it is that is wrong. Tropic dysentry seemed to be their best guess. But, from what I told you, given the information Alice vouchsafed to me in the strictest confidence, I don't think that is the real cause. And that, as I told you, Lars, her former husband, bears the responsibility for all. Syphilis ..._

 _In all of this utter, utter awfulness, my darling, I owe you the most tremendous debt of gratitude for allowing me to come here, for trusting me ..._

 _How I shall fare with the other wretched business, only time will tel, but with all of this, my darling, as you and you alone will understand, I'm not in the best frame of mind to try and be forgiving of how he has behaved in all of this ..._

* * *

 **Skerries House, County Cork, Ireland, late summer 1949.**

After a very welcome cup of tea, taken in what Sybil called the _sitting room_ \- like a disease, this nomenclature seemed to be spreading thought Mary - Sybil showed her sister and niece upstairs to their bedrooms, both of which overlooked the sea. With it having stopped raining, Mary was delighted with the view. And said so.

"Oh, darling, how absolutely charming!"

"Yes," said Sybil, "of course, these rooms are slightly more expensive".

"To be sure," said Tom who had now joined them. "A room with a view. Of course, we charge extra for that," he said straight-faced. Waited while Mary digested this fact. And for the inevitable explosion of aristocratic indignation which followed.

"You mean that we're paying guests? Well, really!" spluttered Mary. Then she saw the corners of her sister and brother-in-law's mouths twitch. Realised she had been the victim of a practical joke. "She smiled. "Honestly, you two!"

"Well, ma'am" drawled Tom, touching an imaginary cap, "those of us in trade have to make our money where we can!"

At this pronouncement, delivered in the same matter-of-fact tone, everyone laughed. Mary's pithy observations to Matthew as to just what she thought of Tom and Sybil opening up a hotel in part of the house here at Skerries had not gone unreported.

"In Matthew's own words, _well played_!"

"And speaking of Matthew ..." Seeing Emily with Dermot in tow appear in the doorway behind her uncle and aunt, Mary shook her head; put her forefinger to her lips. "Later ..." she whispered.

Hearing Dermot in the passage behind her with their cases - the trunk would have to wait until later - Emily turned.

"Thank you. Did I see stables on the way in?" Dermot set down the cases.  
"Yes, that's where Danny has his workshop".  
"So, no horses then?"  
"Oh, yes, we've a couple. Danny likes to ride. That is, when he gets the chance. Which isn't often. Like to see?"  
"Rather!"

"Which is ..."

"Mine?"  
"That one".

"I'll take it along to your room, shall I?"  
"If you don't mind".

"No, not at all. Ma? What time's supper?"  
"The same time as it always is. And if you two are going down to the workshop, mind you tell Danny to make sure he's back here on time and that he and the boys make themselves clean and presentable to meet their Aunt Mary".

"Honestly, Sybil. You make me sound just like granny!"

"A fire breathing old dragon?" Tom chuckled.

At that, Mary smiled, mindful of something that had happened years ago, at Tom and Sybil's wedding ...

* * *

 **Clontarf, County Dublin, Ireland, June 1919.**

The only noticeable disappointment of the evening came when, in front of Tom and Sybil, Mary had to admit to six year old Padraig - Donal and Niamh's young son - that as far as she was aware, there was no dungeon beneath Downton Abbey. For, with its many rooms and large domestic staff, the great house over in England had, at least for the younger children here at the wedding, assumed the role of a mysterious fairy tale castle, while the garage where Tom and Sybil had met in secret, and then fallen in love, had taken on the semblance of a romantic trysting place. Of course, if there had been a dungeon, then Mary and Edith were in no doubt whatsoever that darling Papa would have made very good use of it, as a place in which to incarcerate Tom, before sending him away from the abbey forever or else to the executioner's block erected on the gravel outside the front door.

And in answer to Padraig's next question, again, no.

Never when she had been out hunting, had Mary encountered a dragon anywhere on the estate.

At that, seeing disappointment so clearly etched across the little boy's face, Tom had intervened. With a mock solemnity, belied both by a merry twinkle in his eyes and a broad grin, he had asked Mary if she had forgotten about the Dowager Countess.

With a laugh, entering into the spirit of the occasion, Mary replied that now Tom mentioned it, she had indeed forgotten all about the Dowager Countess. Having repeated the unfamiliar words several times over, with a child's belief that whatever adults say must be true, Padraig had scampered off in search of his cousins, full of the story that at Downton Abbey, dwelling in a deep dark cave called the Dower House, there resided a dragon worse than _Grendel_ in the tale of _Beowulf_.

"And," said Mary, with a grin to match Tom's, "if ever Granny finds out that you view her as a fire breathing old dragon, mark my words, grandson-in-law or not, she'll box your ears!"

* * *

 **Skerries House, County Cork, Ireland, late summer 1949.**

Dermot grinned.

"For sure, Ma!" he said with a laugh.

A moment later without so much as a by-your-leave, he and Emily were gone. That was the way of it these days with young people, thought Mary. Rebecca and David were just the same. Always off doing something.

After Dermot and Emily had gone, despite Sybil's tutting, Tom had picked up Mary's abandoned case and brought it here into the bedroom. Mary sank down wearily on the bed where having motioned Tom to take himself off, Sybil then joined her. She placed an arm comfortingly about her sister's hunched shoulders.

"Is it so very dreadful?" she asked softly.

Mary raised her head.

"Darling, what do you think?" And promptly burst into tears.

* * *

 **Skerries Cove, later that same day.**

By the time they reached the far side of the bay and the rocks from off which Danny had taught both Daniel and Tomás to dive the previous summer, the tide was already on the turn.

"I hear yous and Danny are going riding tomorrow?"  
"Yes, if he can spare me the time".

"I'm sure he'll do his best. After all, he doesn't often get the chance and over here, there's no-one else in the family who rides. I know he misses it". Tom pointed towards the open sea."It comes in swiftly, for sure. Time we were heading back. And Danny and the boys should be back at the house by now".

Mary nodded.

"Darling Tom. We've come such a very long way from where we first started, haven't we?" she asked softly. Now as they turned and began slowly to retrace their steps along the sea strand and towards the distant house, impulsively, she linked her arm through his. "This pace isn't too fast for you, is it? Because if it is, you must ..."

"That we have, for sure," agreed Tom. "And while it's kind of yous to ask, I'm fine, perfectly fine". He patted her arm then nodded again, towards the incoming tide. "Besides, we don't want to be gettin' our feet wet now, do we?"

Mary smiled.

"No, of course not. So, tell me, in all honesty, what you think about ... what we've been discussing".  
"What I t'ink?" Tom laughed.

Mary nodded again.

"Yes, what you think. Is that so strange? To want to know what you think?"  
"No, not at all. It's just that yous be the t'ird person in as many days who be wantin' to know what I t'ink about all of this. First Sybil, then Danny, and now yous".  
"Really?"  
"Yes, for sure".

"And what did you tell them?"  
"That asking me what I t'ink is a dangerous question!" Tom chuckled. "But, seriously now, Sybil told me how upset yous were. But, since yous ask, what I t'ink, it's this. Matthew Crawley's the most honourable man I've ever known. A good man. A fine man. I'd trust him with my life. Mary, darlin', not only is he my brother-in-law but he's my best friend. He loves yous dearly. Yous know that as well as I. All those years ago, I told yous that yous and Matthew were meant for each other. None of what yous told me here this afternoon changes that. Any of it. As for the other business ... Now that's odd".

"What is?"

Tom pointed to where, in the distance, a man was climbing up the cliffs back towards the house.

"Only those of us here at Skerries know of that path. It's so narrow, we call it the Gulls' Way. Now, if I didn't know better, I'd say that was Mr. Bradley. But of course it can't be. After all, he said he's never been here before".

* * *

 **Lisbon, Portugal, early autumn 1949.**

 _Rua da Judiaria,_

 _Lisbon_

 _October, 1949._

 _Dear Kurt,_

 _It's over six weeks since we parted on the station in Biarritz and I expect you will think that I have forgotten all about you. In fact, nothing could be further from the truth. The truth is ..._

 **Author's Note:**

The character of Alice de Tourville, comtesse de Roquebrune is based on the Danish author Karen von Blixen (1885-1962) part of whose story was told in the film _Out of Africa,_ starring Robert Redford and Meryl Streep.

In my take on the Crawleys, Robert, Danny's grandfather, taught his Irish grandson the art of fly fishing.

The Cunard liner, RMS Lusitania, was torpedoed and sunk off the Old Head of Kinsale on 7th May 1915.

Petya is the diminutive of Pyotr.

Closed in 1980, the Gare de Biarritz-Ville is now in use as a _Palais des Festivals._

For Danny learning how to ride and why he did so _,_ see _The White Cliffs Of Dover._


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Of Trams, Horses, And Motors

 **Maison des Colombes, St. Paul de Vence, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.**

Of course, in life, chance plays its part in so many things.

As indeed it did today, here in St. Paul where, at last, if only briefly, the rain had now stopped.

For, this particular lunchtime, had it not been the case that Alec and Simon had an appointment to keep down at the Gare de Cagnes to meet someone off the train from Nice, and had Maysonet's two sons, Jules and Pierre, not taken themselves off unexpectedly up into Vence, to look at some old timbers which they had heard about on _le téléphone arabe_ and might, they thought, just prove suitable for re-roofing the ruined _colombier_ behind the house, there would have been someone in when accompanied by Alphonse, Maysonet decided to pay his unexpected call.

Not, of course, that he had to stop off at the Maison des Colombes at all.

But call here, he did.

Having learned earlier in the day from both Jules and Pierre that the hornets' nests had been disposed of safely, wending his way home from a convivial drink or two taken in the Bar Nicolas, on the spur of the moment, Maysonet decided to call in at the Maison des Colombes in order to collect his leather bag of carpenter's tools. This so that he could finally fix the broken lock on the door at the rear of Madame Tanet's place. In return for which act of generosity he hoped H **é** loise would be exceedingly grateful, and so thereafter be able to while away a pleasant afternoon spent in her company.

It was Maysonet's firm belief that the decidedly buxom, shapely, Madame Héloise Tanet needed a man about the place.

And not just any man.

The individual Maysonet had in mind to fill this august role was himself.

Of course there had been a man in the Tanet household once before: Monsieur Henri. But, sad to relate, one night having had too much to drink, the daft bugger had been stupid enough to step in front of a tram in Nice.

The damage to the front of the tramcar had been minimal.

That to the reckless Henri, rather more extensive.

In fact, fatal.

As well as disrupting the tram service along the entire line for the whole of the evening, and to the decided inconvenience of the travelling public.

* * *

Now although it caused a great deal of comment at the time, in the form of wagging tongues, H **é** loise made arrangements to have the unfortunate Henri interred down there in Nice. For as she said to several mourners at the _veillée funèbre_ , there was no point wasting good money on bringing the idiot's corpse all the way back up here to St. Paul, just so that Henri could be buried in the local cemetery.

It was, continued H **é** loise, warming to her task and waxing lyrical, probably on account of one too many glasses of wine, her considered opinion that dear, dead Henri would be just as comfortable, as well as proving cheaper, laid to rest in the Cimetière du Château in Nice, from where there was an exceedingly fine view out over the ocean. Not, of course, that the hapless Henri would be in a position to appreciate it but no matter; H **é** loise would enjoy the prospect for the both of them. That would be when she went down into Nice to see her dressmaker.

But then, only if time permitted.

And dress fittings so often overran.

And if they did not, then the weather might prove inclement, to risk a walk up to the cemetery.

And the bus service back here to St. Paul was also inconvenient.

So with all of this, in the three years that had elapsed since the fatal encounter between Henri and the tramcar, H **é** loise had still not managed to enjoy the unrivalled view from the Cimetière du Château.

* * *

 **La Rosière, near Nantes, Brittany, France, autumn 1949.**

Early evening.

A faint mist rising, coiling, smoke like, from off the softly flowing grey waters of the river.

The smell of damp earth, leaf mould, and of wood smoke that made Edith think instantly of distant Downton.

Above her head a handful of brown, withered leaves spiralled down.

And, for the very first time this year, there was, thought Edith, a distinct chill in the air.

In all likelihood therefore, an early autumn beckoned.

"And?" she asked as, with their relationship long since having resumed its customary intimacy and rhythm, here at La Rosière, arm in arm, she and Kurt were strolling slowly back towards the château, along the north bank of the Loire.

"Dearest Mama?" Kurt slipped his arm about her still slender waist, while Edith rested her head comfortingly against his shoulder. These days, Kurt was several inches taller than she. Just as darling Max had been ... No, don't think of what might have been. Be thankful for what you had. What, you still have. Here beside you.

"My darling boy, when we were all down there in Biarritz staying at the Zhdanovs' villa, I know that you told me on the beach ... ... that you were a man grown ... And if you don't want to talk about it, then I promise you that I won't press you any further ... But ... I think ... there are things to tell me, are there not? For example, the letter which arrived here only this morning? Why, after you'd read it, your father said he hadn't seen you so happy in ages. And, neither for that matter, my darling, have I".

Kurt blushed.

"Darling Mama, I don't know what to say. Except that I've been so utterly beastly. Towards you and to Papa. And I'm so very, very sorry. I shouldn't have ..."

"Hush now, my darling. That's all forgotten. All the same, both your father and I could not help but notice the postmark. May I presume it was from ..." Edith turned her head.

Kurt looked down fondly at his mother; now gave her the most dazzling of smiles.

"Hannah ... yes".

* * *

 **Skerries House, County Cork, Ireland, late summer 1949.**

By the time Tom and Mary reached the top of the cliffs, he remarking, as he had done once before to Sybil, that the distance seemed to be greater than he remembered it to be, and came once more in sight of the house, of their unexpected visitor down there to the cove there was no sign.

None whatsoever.

This in itself was strange, said Tom, who at Mary's insistence had, leaning against a stone wall, paused to recover his breath. On the face of it, even allowing for their own relatively slow rate of progress, there was nowhere the man could possibly have gone; not in the space of time which had elapsed since they first saw him and then reached the top of the cliffs where they were now standing. As from this point to the ha-ha, that marked where the garden of the house began, there was open country. Nothing more than a treeless, flat expanse of sheep cropped turf.

But thereafter, as they set off again, all thought of the unknown man was quickly forgotten, as from a distance they were hailed by Danny and his two eldest walking back to the house from the old stables. Evidently, Dermot had done as he had been asked and passed on his mother's message that Danny, Daniel and Tomás should be timely in their return. Although of Dermot and Emily there was no immediate sign.

* * *

"Hello, Aunt Mary! Why, yous be looking grand, for sure!" laughed Danny. Dressed in an open necked check shirt, oil stained overalls, and wearing a pair of heavy, hobnailed boots he darted forward and bestowed a kiss on his aunt's ivory cheek. For some reason, his infectious bonhomie cheered Mary enormously; lifted her spirits, as indeed did his next comment. "Our Dermot tells me that yous be wanting to ride out tomorrow?"  
"If you can spare the time".

"For my favourite aunt? I will, to be sure!"

"A little less of the Irish blarney, if you please, Mr. Branson!" laughed Mary. But, for all that, secretly, she was very grateful indeed for her much loved nephew's promise to go out riding with her the following day.

"Boys?" Danny nodded his head towards Mary but, instead of moving forward to greet her, seemingly tongue-tied, Daniel and Tomás said nothing, now hurriedly pulled off their caps, and bowed gravely from the waist.

Danny cleared his throat.

"Go on with the pair of yous! They be thinkin' you're **Queen** Mary!"

"T'at's the person, not the ship!" whispered Tom with a devilish grin.

"And is that really supposed to make me feel any better? Do I look over eighty? Tom, don't you dare answer that!" laughed Mary. "Now boys, come here the both of you and walk with me back to the house". Smiling, Mary promptly held out her hands; saw Daniel and Tomás eye each other nervously. "It's all right, whatever you may have been told, I don't bite!"

Slowly Daniel and Tomás did as they had been asked; now fell in beside their great aunt, each taking one of her outstretched hands. A moment later Mary wished she hadn't made the offer; like those of their father, the boys' hands were stained with motor oil. However, not for nothing was Mary a Crawley and that twice over. In a display of stoicism - she had learned the word from Matthew with his love of all things Classical - Mary said nothing; merely walked on across the grass, holding her two great nephews firmly by both of their oily, dirty hands.

* * *

As they reached the front steps of the house, Mary promptly letting go of Daniel and Tomás's oil-stained hands, horn blaring, scattering a gaggle of squawking geese, a black motor emerged swiftly out from beneath the canopy of the trees lining the drive leading up to the house from the off road.

Danny grinned.

"Ah! Here's Claire. Back from her rounds. She's just like Ma. Loves to drive fast, for sure!"

"Yes, so I can see!"

And so it proved to be.

In a splatter of flying gravel, Dr. Claire Branson drew her battered Riley to a stop in front of the house, where, shortly afterwards, there followed yet a further round of greetings.

* * *

"Hello, Lady Grantham!"  
"Claire, darling! Lady Grantham? You must call me Aunt Mary".

As the women kissed each other politely on the cheek, the two young boys who had been sitting inside on the back seat of the car now clambered out. The first was young Rober' while the second ...

Even if Mary had not known who he was, there was no mistaking who young Josef's father had been.

He was the absolute image of darling Max.

* * *

In the unlikely event of anyone ever chancing to ask her to describe it to them later, Mary would have said that the scene presently unfolding before her resembled nothing short of a madhouse; although, of the late and unlamented first Mrs. Rochester there was no immediate sign. But then, given all the circumstances, that was hardly surprising. For this was not some dusty, long forgotten garret, at the top of Thornfield Hall. This was the old kitchen of Skerries House.

And the "inmates" of this particular institution were all children.

 _Juvenile delinquents_ , thought Mary.

Or else, perhaps, escapees from a chimpanzees' tea party.

But then, from what she remembered of such a gathering, albeit faintly - perhaps Edith and rather more importantly Sybil might yet recall it - which, along with their nanny, Mary and her two sisters had watched, when the three of them had been children, at the zoo up in London, long before the Great War, a lifetime ago, during the reign of Queen Victoria, the chimpanzees had been far better behaved.

* * *

Save for Dermot and Emily - whom, Mary assumed, must still be looking at the horses down in the stables, they were all here, below stairs, or as Sybil insisted calling it _downstairs_ \- in the old kitchen of the house, where under the watchful eyes of Tom and Sybil, along with those of both Danny and Claire, the younger children in the Branson household were all having their tea.

 _Watchful eyes_?

Hardly.

From what Mary also remembered of childhood teatimes taken in the day nursery at Downton, dear old Nanny had been possessed of _watchful_ _eyes_. As well as another pair seemingly in the back of her head. Nothing ever got past Nanny. And, never, for an instant would Mary or her sisters have ever been allowed to behave as these children were doing so now. Eating, chattering, and laughing. But even Mary could see that all of them were undeniably happy; as well they might be. Danny and Claire were both doting parents and it was obvious that the children adored their grandparents, Tom and Sybil, with whom they shared the easiest of relationships. While a boisterous handful, Danny's three boys were an undeniably handsome, young trio; in which respect they took after both their father and paternal grandfather. Rober', the youngest, named for dearest Bobby killed in the air raid on Dublin's Northside back in May 1941, was the image of the uncle he had never known.

And seated here at the long scrubbed, deal table, opposite Tom and Sybil's youngest, Ailis, there was someone else who also very much resembled another member of the family who, like Bobby, had died during the war. Six year old Josef who in both his looks and colouring was so like his late father that, thought Mary with a heartfelt, stifled sigh, he could have been darling Max come back to life.

* * *

 **Maison des Colombes, St. Paul de Vence, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.**

Maysonet let himself into the house.

Indeed, he was rather surprised that he had to do so; was then equally surprised to find no-one here. Neither of the two young Englishmen, nor his own sons. But a quick reconnoitre proved that both the house and the cleared garden were indeed empty. Back inside, with Alphonse trotting ahead of him, Maysonet set off up the spiral stone staircase to the attic room where he had left his bag of carpenter's tools.

* * *

 **Skerries House, County Cork, Ireland, late summer 1949.**

"Yes, I agree. Together, they are rather a handful!" nodded Claire with a grin, looking fondly at the four young boys and Ailis seated at the long table. She placed her hands demurely across her belly. "I do so very much hope that this next one's a girl. It will help to even things up a bit round here! Even Danny agrees with that!" She laughed. So too did Sybil.

"When do you think you are due? I imagine late next spring?"

"Yes, all being well".

"Don't worry, it will be. By the way, Tom and I are absolutely delighted".

Impulsively, Sybil hugged Claire to her, someone of whom over the past few years, she had come to love very much; this made easier by the fact that the marriage between Danny and Claire was so obviously a happy one. Sadly, Sybil had had virtually no opportunity to become properly acquainted with Danny's first wife, Carmen, given the fact that they were living in far distant Madeira and paid but one visit here to Ireland; that, during the Emergency, in the aftermath of the death of darling Bobby. And then, shortly after that, Carmen herself had died, tragically, in a forest fire, sacrificing herself in order to save the lives of her three young sons.

Bringing with him his three motherless boys, a heartbroken Danny had returned to Ireland and for a very long while, Tom and Sybil had thought that he would never remarry. Then, following the tragedy of Max's death, Danny and Claire had begun writing to each other; a lengthy correspondence, leading finally to their engagement, and then to their marriage. So with Danny and Claire living here at Skerries, Sybil was determined to make up for lost time.

A moment later and she had turned to Mary.

"Another grandchild. All being well, that will make eight! Nine including dear little Josef. Isn't it wonderful news?"

"Yes, well, of course".

Like her late father, Mary was never very good at discussing medical matters with anyone; certainly not the business of _having_ children, especially with someone she did not know that well. What made it infinitely worse was that, as with Sybil, Claire, like her fellow members of the medical profession, seemed quite blasé about all manner of such things. Had no qualms whatsoever about discussing openly what they regarded as of a daily occurrence. For her part, Mary considered that a discrete veil should be drawn over such matters and not have them spoken of in public; even among members of one's own immediate family.

* * *

"No, Rober'!" The little boy looked up questioningly at his stepmother, and then almost immediately across at his Da standing on the other side of the room, for some form of enlightenment as to what it was that he had done wrong.

"Son, yous don't put honey on your _soldiers_ and then dip them in your boiled eggs!" remonstrated Danny.

"But, Da it tastes grand, for sure!"

"Grand, maybe. But yous just don't do that!"

Over by the stove, standing with their arms around each other's waists, Tom and Sybil exchanged amused glances, recalling that when he had been about the same age as Rober' was now Danny had done something very similar, involving a tin of sardines and a jar of marmalade.

"Ouch! That hurt, for sure!" yelled Tomás.

"Daniel Branson! A fork is for eating with, not stabbing your brother!" This from Claire, who now promptly took possession of the offending item of cutlery from out of the startled grasp of her eldest stepson.

"Ma!" cried Tomás, now making a dramatic show of rubbing his injured thigh, on which but the tiniest of red marks were now faintly to be seen.

"I think you'll live," said Claire, clearly unconcerned.

"He started it, Ma! He said I was a feckin' ..." This from Daniel.

"I don't want to hear what it was he called you!"

Daniel glared angrily at Tomás while Ailis, assuming an air of prim superiority, decided now was the opportune moment for her to to make her own contribution to the evening's proceedings.

"He did, Claire. Tomás said Daniel was a fe ..." she began.  
"Yes, thank you, young lady. We don't need your two-penneth worth!" admonished Sybil. Beside her, Tom grinned at his daughter; put his forefinger to his lips.

"Yes, Ma".

Realising she herself was now the object of unwanted attention, Ailis blushed. Clammed up immediately and instead resumed eating her boiled eggs and soldiers while unseen, Tomás stuck out his tongue at her.

"See what he .." began Daniel.

"I didn't ..." wailed Tomás, now assuming, had he known what it was, an expression of righteous indignation. Not of course that he did, but, contrived all the same to look as though butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

"Yes, yous did, for sure!"

"No, I didn't!" Once more unseen, Tomás promptly stuck out his tongue again, this time at his elder brother.

"Daniel, darling, even if he did, you're older than he is".

"Only by two years!"  
"Whether it's one year or two, that doesn't make a blind bit of difference. Now, as I just told you, you're older than Tomás, so you should know better than to behave like that! Especially when we have guests. What ever will your Great Aunt Mary be thinking? I'll tell you. She'll be thinking you are very badly behaved indeed, that's what!"

That's an understatement, thought Mary.

"And, no, darling, I'm not saying you did start it," added Claire hastily, seeing Tomás scowl.

"I didn't, Ma! Honest!"

"Yes yous did! Yous said I was a feck ..." began Daniel.

"Feck yousel'!"  
"Not another word! From of either of yous!" warned Danny. "Otherwise, your Great Aunt Mary will be very displeased! And both of yous knows what that will mean, for sure!" Unseen by the two boys, Danny winked broadly at his aunt.

At this startling pronouncement on the part of their Da, Daniel and Tomás now exchanged horrified glances. Grandpa Tom had told them that Great Aunt Mary was very beautiful. Which indeed was the case. Maybe, just maybe, she was like Morganna le Fay at the court of King Arthur in the stories Grandpa had read to them at bedtime. Very beautiful but also ... a sorceress, possessed of great magical powers. With this thought in mind, each of the two boys hastily put a forefinger to their lips, the pair of them, then and there assuming the angelic expressions reserved for a pair of Botticelli cherubs.

Here in the kitchen it was now as if a switch had been thrown or a button pressed; that by some miracle, the whole family had been transported suddenly into the quiet and contemplation of a Trappist order of monks. For there descended instantaneously upon the entire proceedings, so complete and utter a silence that had it been dropped the proverbial pin would now have been heard. Outside, and purely coincidentally, caused only by the sun disappearing momentarily behind a bank of cloud, the sky now suddenly darkened. The effect all this produced here within the old kitchen could not have been more dramatic; served only to enhance Great Aunt Mary's reputation among the younger generation at Skerries as someone, with whom it was very unwise to trifle and whom one only risked annoying at one's peril.

Mary wondered what they had been saying about her, what with Danny's two eldest doffing their caps and bowing. And now this. Considered that she wouldn't be at all surprised if they hadn't been told she was a witch; singularly unaware, of course, of just how close to the truth this in fact was. Now whether or not this had some part to play in what happened next, no-one, not even Mary herself could have said.

* * *

 **Maison des Colombes, St. Paul de Vence, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.**

Up the stone steps, pausing frequently for breath went old Maysonet, Alphonse scampering ahead of him so much so that as the old builder rounded one spiral, all he glimpsed was the hind quarters and the tail of Alphonse as the dog trotted on up the steps. And then, finally, at the doorway to the attic, which he remembered the Englishman who was the artist intended using as a studio, Maysonet finally caught up with Alphonse on the threshold of the room where the dog was sitting whining piteously.

"Qu'est ce que c'est, mon vieux?"

There before them was the attic room, the _atelier_ lit by its cracked sky light - the broken glass of which still had to be replaced - and with its timbers, the beams, purlins, and rafters, all smelling strongly of wood preservative. Save for a large easel and stool, as well as the paraphernalia associated with an artist - sheets of paper, rolls of canvas, jars of brushes and pencils, rags, a palette, and a wooden box containing tubes of paints - the attic it was empty. As if the Englishman had just stepped outside for a quick cigarette.

Dust motes danced in the shaft of sunlight streaming in through the cracked glass of the casement.

The attic was empty.

Or was it?

Then, somewhere, in the silent _atelier,_ a floorboard creaked.

A moment later, all thought of his bag of tools, la veuve Tanet, even his earlier shortness of breath now forgotten, Maysonet turned and, with Alphonse, his tail between his legs, fled back down the staircase whence they had just come.

* * *

 **Skerries House, County Cork, Ireland, late summer 1949.**

Pudding had been rhubarb and custard which, Ailis announced proudly to the assembled company she had helped Colleen and Nora make. A short while later, in front of all of the children seated here at the kitchen table, along with rosy cheeks and happy, smiling faces, there were empty plates aplenty; the children desperate to be allowed down from the table and allowed to go outside and play before it was time for bed.

Empty plates aplenty?

Well, almost.

For, despite Ailis's undoubted skills as a cook, the stewed rhubarb had not found favour with one member of the family: young Josef who, throughout the entire meal had been noticeably far less boisterous than the rest of them and who, to be frank, appeared somewhat overawed by his more exuberant half brothers. If no-one else had noticed this fact, and it seemed that they had not, it had not escaped the attention of Mary.

"Please, Ma?"

"No, Daniel, not until everyone else has finished. Josef's still eating".

"Come on Joe! We want to go down to the treehouse!"

"Yes, come on, slowcoach!"

Josef glowered at Daniel and then glared at Tomás; all the while continuing to toy slowly with the bowl of rhubarb and custard with his spoon.

And then, something totally unexpected happened.

To the amazement of everyone here present, forgetting her own present woes, Mary did something she would never have expected to do. Would not have done with her own grandchildren. She walked forward and knelt down on the flagstones beside Josef's chair. A sudden hush descended and, spellbound, everyone waited to see what would happen next.

"Now, young man, did you know that your father and I were the greatest friends?"  
Josef slowly shook his head; looked towards his mother for confirmation of this startling new fact.

"Yes, darling, your Papa and Aunt Mary were very good friends". Claire smiled; nodded her head.

Josef now looked back at Mary.

"So, tonight, before you go to sleep, would you like me to sit with you, and tell you what I remember about him?"  
"Yes, please," whispered Josef, softly.

Mary smiled.

"Then, that's agreed. I will. But first things first. I know that your father would have wanted you to grow up big and strong. And that means ..." Mary nodded her head towards Josef's bowl. "If I help you, will you eat all of it up?" Josef nodded and, watched by Mary, picked up his spoon and at last began to eat.

Overhearing this exchange, Claire had to smile.

By common assent, even among the family, Aunt Mary was not the most approachable of people. Equally, too, some things are best left unspoken about, until the need comes for the telling of them, as with Aunt Mary's promise to recount to Josef her recollections of his father, Max. But that of all those here present, it should be the usually aloof, disdainful Mary Crawley who seemingly, saving Claire herself, alone understood that the way to win the trust of the little boy was to talk to him about his Papa was quite unexpected. As a result, Claire found herself feeling very kindly disposed towards the Countess of Grantham.

While Claire was reflecting on this strange turn of events, Daniel and Tomás, now once again the best of friends, exchanged knowing glances. Perhaps, after all, despite all they had heard, Great Aunt Mary was not as bad as they had first imagined her to be. Maybe, as Da had said, her bark was much worse than her bite. Still, it was better to be safe than sorry and so it might be for the best, at least for the time being, if they didn't do what they had planned to do later this evening: sneak into her room and apple-pie her bed. After all, Heaven knows what she then might do.

Probably turn the both of them into a pair of toads.

* * *

 **Gare de Cagnes, Cagnes sur Mer, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.**

"Father! Is it really you?"

"Well, let me wash the cinders out of my hair and the grime from off my face and then we'll both be sure. Yes, indeed".

Holding out his hand to Simon, Matthew nodded at his son; glanced curtly at Alec who for once found himself uncharacteristically lost for words. The circumstances under which they were meeting were ... irregular. This apart, just how did one address a member of the British aristocracy? He tried to remember what it was Simon had said. And for the life of him, now found that he couldn't remember one single bloody word of what he had been told.

Not that Alec really cared.

As a Communist, he would quite happily consign all members of the aristocracy, British or French, to the pages of history. Not that he subscribed to the Russian solution to the problems inherent in society, readily conceding first Lenin, and now Stalin, to be a murderous pair of bastards. That what they had created there in Soviet Russia was no better than what had gone before. Indeed, in many ways, it was far, far worse. But, for Simon's sake, Alec wanted this meeting between Simon and his father to work. After all, this was the first direct contact Simon would have had with a member of his immediate family since he had left Downton back in the spring of 1944.

Simon studiously ignored his father's outstretched hand.

"Why have you come ... your telegram said very little".  
Matthew let his ignored hand drop.

"That's the way of it with telegrams. Brevity's the name of the game". The earl of Grantham contrived a dry laugh. "I had ... I have ... business in ..."  
"Geneva? Yes, that much I gathered".  
"Yes, Geneva. The League ..."  
"And if you hadn't, then I don't suppose you would even have bothered ..."

"Simon, I haven't come all this way for us to have an argument".

"Just why have you come?"

"I would have thought that was obvious".

"So bloody obvious that I can't see it?" Simon turned his back on his father; stood staring out of the window at the falling rain.

"Simon, please ... You're my son. I care what happens to you".

"Do you? Do you really?"  
"Yes, of course".

From where he was standing, Alec could see, even if Matthew could not, the tears starting in Simon's eyes. Alec now did his best to pour oil on troubled waters. Rested his hands firmly on Simon's shoulders.

"Si, will you look at me, please".

Simon shook his head.

"No," he said brokenly.

"And so ... does your mother," added Matthew quietly. S _ome things are best left unspoken ..._ Scarce were the words out of his mouth, before Matthew realised he should have kept his piece.

Shrugging off Alec's hands, Simon spun about.

"I wondered when we would get around to Mama. Is that why you've come here? Because she sent you?"

"Simon, that remark does you no credit at all. That's not the way things are between Mama and I. No, your mother didn't send me. She doesn't even know I'm here".

"I'll never forgive her for what she did. Do you hear me? Never! Have you any idea what Alec went through there in prison?"

"I've a mild notion, yes. In fact, as it happens, rather more than that".

But for the moment, Simon wasn't listening.

"Even though he was innocent of what he was accused, Alec pleaded guilty as charged ... to spare me!"

That was something which Matthew hadn't known. He glanced briefly at Alec. Contrived a weak smile.

"I see ..."

"What you just said ..."

"Hm?"

"What _mild notion_?"

"Now is neither the time or the place to go into that". Matthew turned; now addressed himself to Alec. "Trust me, Mr. Foster, when I say that I do understand what you must have gone through. In fact, far more than either of you could possibly imagine. I'll tell you ... both of you ... all about that. But not now. To be perfectly frank, I'm dog tired ... These last few days ... I suppose it must be all the travelling. I half hoped ..."  
"Hoped what?" asked Simon.

"That you might offer me a bed for the night. Or else tell me the whereabouts of the nearest decent hotel. I have to return to ... Geneva in a couple of days".

"Well, I don't know about ..." began Simon.  
"Yes, of course, we'd be delighted," cut in Alec briskly. "After all, Si', you've said it yourself often enough".  
"Said what?"  
"That the local hotel's bloody awful".

Of course, Simon had said no such thing.

"Here, let me". Alec bent down and picked up Matthew's case.

"Thank you".

"Then, the car's this way ..."

* * *

 **Skerries House, County Cork, Ireland, late summer 1949.**

"And just where might the two of you have been?" asked Sybil, now seeing Dermot and Emily both quietly crossing the hall below her. Hearing her voice, the two of them stopped dead in their tracks. That they had been holding hands had also not gone unnoticed by Sybil.

"Oh, Ma!" exclaimed Dermot looking about and now catching sight of his mother as she made her way down the main staircase of the house.  
"Yes, that's me. How observant of you! Emily, darling, your mother's upstairs, changing for dinner".  
" _Dinner_?" asked Dermot. As well he might. After all, they never sat down to _dinner_ at Skerries. Supper, yes ... but _dinner_? " _Changing for dinner_?" Dermot sounded incredulous.

"Darling, the quickness of your mind never ceases to amaze me! Yes, that's what I just said. _Changing for dinner_ ". Sybil turned swiftly to Emily. "Your Mama was asking for you. I told her Dermot had telephoned the house from the stables and that both of you were on your way back here. Is that understood?" Sybil smiled.

"Oh, yes. Er, thank you!". Clearly relieved, Emily squeezed past her aunt and hurried on upstairs while, at the foot of the staircase, Dermot thrust his hands into his pockets and turned on his heel.

"Dermot!"

"Ma?"  
"I want a word with you ..."

* * *

Good advice is so often ignored ...

* * *

 **Old Stables, Skerries House, later that same evening.**

As Emily made her way across the cobbled yard of the old stables where, unbeknown to her, years ago, Uncle Tom and Aunt Sybil had first laid eyes on each other as children, to where the light was shining, her path was made certain not only by the lamp lit window, but by the fact this was where Dermot and she had come earlier today, to see both the horses and Danny's workshop. That Emily herself rode was something Dermot hadn't known. In fact, much to the disappointment of their mother, of Dermot's four Crawley cousins only Emily had shown any interest in both horses and in learning how to ride.

Having seen the horses, two bays and a chestnut - Dermot said as far as he was concerned all three were simply brown - and then the workshop, on learning that Dermot didn't know how to ride, Emily promised to rectify this glaring omission in his education. This on the understanding that while she and Mama were staying here at Skerries, he taught Emily how to drive.

And, said Dermot, he would teach her other things too.

"Such as?"

"The difference between an Austin, a Morris, and a Riley".

"Anything else Mr. Know-it-all?"

"Ah, now that would be telling, for sure!"

* * *

It was already beginning to grow foggy, just as Uncle Tom had said it might, this during dinner which had proved a somewhat fraught affair. To tell the truth, Emily was glad to be out of the house what with Mama still clearly upset over this business of Papa and some French countess, as well as Simon; about whom these days no-one ever seemed to speak at all.

Emily lifted the latch and let herself into the workshop.

Jacket and tie cast aside, there was Dermot - Derry as he had told her he preferred to be called - in waistcoat and trousers, his sleeves rolled up, leaning against the side of the motor, looking at a newspaper. Hearing the latch, he turned, and, when he saw who it was, he smiled.

"You look very fine".

Emily smiled.

Dermot straightened; laid aside the newspaper.

"It's very late. Won't your mother worry?"

The air tingled.

Emily shook her head.

"She's far too busy talking with Uncle ... I mean with your Da and Ma, about Papa and Simon, to care where I am".

Again the same strangeness in the air.

Almost as if ...

Dermot smiled.

"I like Uncle Matthew. Your brother Simon ... Now, he's the one that nobody ever speaks about?"

Emily nodded.

"He's living in France ... with his chum".

"You mean he's queer".

"What?"

"A homosexual".

Emily blushed.

"I don't know anything about that".

Dermot had the good grace to realise he had trespassed on sacred ground.

"Perhaps not. But as for your mother, she's a ..."  
"Oh, Mama's all right".

"For sure," Dermot said softly, unable to keep his voice free from sarcasm.

"No, really she is. It's just her manner. Speaking of mothers, what did your Ma have to say to you, before dinner?"

"She wanted to warn me".

"Warn you? About what?"

"About ... us".

"And is there an _us_?" asked Emily.

Derry closed the gap between them.

"I think there might be. And, so do yous. After all, isn't that why you're here with me now? To find out?"

"Perhaps".

"Grand! So, let's see if I can make yous certain that there is".

"And just how do you intend doing that?"

"Like this ..."

* * *

"So, where shall we go?"

"There's a place I know, where I go when I want to be alone. It's not far".

Derry held out his hand to her.

"Are you nervous?"  
"No. Why should I be?"

* * *

 **Villa Artemis, above Menton, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.**

Matthew was aghast at what it was that Alice now proposed.

"I couldn't possibly".

"For my sake, mon cher, I ask that you reconsider".

* * *

 **Skerries Cove, County Cork, Ireland, late summer 1949.**

Here in the cave, down on the beach, by the flickering embers of the fire, as the waves broke on the strand, bathed in the glow of firelight, Derry rose above her. Her legs clasped together about his back, Emily drew him in, further, deeper still.

* * *

When the unexpected explosion rent the night air, they had fallen asleep. Were lying in each other's arms on the improvised bed of bracken; the thunderous noise of the detonation serving to jolt them out of their sated slumber, back to the cold harshness of reality.

"Jaysus! What the feck ..." Tousled haired and wide eyed, Dermot sat bolt upright. Saw beyond the mouth of the cave, the drifting, ethereal wall of fog illuminated in a sudden starburst of light.

Emily, likewise awoken in alarm, also sat up, her arms clasped about her bare breasts.

"Derry, what is it? What's happening?"

Another explosion now followed.

Then hard on its heels, a third.

"Feckin' hell! It's rockets!"

Stark naked, Dermot scrambled hastily to his feet; turned up the wick of the lantern.

"Rockets?"

While he struggled hurriedly into his clothes, Dermot sought to explain.

"Distress rockets. A ship must have run aground off the cove in the fog!"

"Heavens!"  
"It's happened before ... that's how I know. Look, one of us must stay here. The other will have to go back to the stables and telephone the house. That is if the line from there is working. Sometimes it isn't. If so, then on up to the house. Either way, tell Da and Ma. Get them to call for help. Let the harbour master in Kinsale know what's happened. By rights it should be me to go but I know the shoals and the tides".

"Then that settles it. I'll go". Emily began pulling on her clothes.

"Yous?" Dermot looked back at her from the mouth of the cave.  
"Yes, me. As you say, you know all about the ... What was it again?"  
"The shoals and tides. For sure".

"Then it makes sense that you stay, and I go".

Dermot looked again at the fog swirling beyond the entrance of the cave.

"Darlin', it's t'ick as one of Ma's stews, for sure.  
At that Emily had to smile. Stories abounded about Aunt Sybil's lack of cooking skills; indeed, they had become very much a part of Crawley family history.

"And?"

For a moment, Dermot was dumbfounded. His cousin Emily was proving to be very different to the handful of local girls he had come to know hereabouts after the Bransons had left Dublin for the wilds of County Cork. But, for all her admitted inexperience in matters sexual - not that she was a virgin, as Emily had freely admitted to him earlier - his English cousin had proved an enthusiastic partner in what they had done down here in the cave.

"What I mean is ... will yous be all right, for sure ... on your own?"

"Will you?"  
"For sure!"

"Well then ..."

"But aren't yous nervous?"  
"Of what? A little fog? No, not in the slightest".

"Do yous think yous can find the path?"

" _Can I find the path_?" Emily repeated; her tone mocking, so much so but for the fact there was no malice in her, it could have been her mother speaking. Having finished dressing, a moment later, she had risen to her feet, crossed the floor of the cavern, and come to stand beside him at the mouth of the cave.

"Well, can yous?"  
"Derry Branson, aren't you forgetting something?"

"Forgettin' somethin'? Am I, for sure?" He grinned.  
"Yes, you are". She kissed him lightly on the cheek.

"What?"

"I'm a Crawley".

"Take the lantern, for sure".

Emily shook her head.

"And leave you all alone in the dark? I'll be just _grand_!"

He followed her outside to see her go, both of them ducking down under the low mouth of the cave, something which had helped kept its existence known only to Dermot.

A moment later, having kissed him once again, alone, Emily set off resolutely through the drifting fog, back along the sands, in search of the narrow, steep path which led upwards to the top of the cliffs and Skerries House.

 **Author's Note:**

 _le téléphone arabe_ \- the grapevine.

In 1949, Queen Mary, the widow of George V, was 82.

Mrs. Rochester - see _Jane Eyre_ by Charlotte Bronte.

The Emergency - the name by which the Second World War was known in neutral Ireland.

 _veillée funèbre_ \- wake.

 _La veuve_ \- widow.

For Tom and Sybil's childhood encounter at Skerries House, see _Home Is Where The Heart Is._ Chapter Three


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

The Old Lie

Part of what is recounted in this chapter may distress some of you.

The Irish Chauffeur

 **Gare de Cagnes, Cagnes-sur-Mer, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.**

Out here in the gravelled forecourt of the railway station, standing in the pouring rain, Alec opened the driver's door of the 2CV. Then, straightening up, he looked Matthew directly in the eye.

"I feel like I'm a bloody chauffeur. Only I'm not".

"No, of course you're not. But thank you anyway".

Matthew ghosted a thin smile and climbed in; over his shoulder, now heard Foster asking Simon to help him with the luggage. Didn't catch what it was that Simon said by way of reply; if in fact he had said anything at all and which, in the circumstances, seemed only all too likely.

 _I feel like I'm a bloody chauffeur. Only I'm not._

At Foster's words, for Matthew, memory stirred.

Of Private William Mason doing exactly the same thing for him, in his case, standing to attention beside the open door of a Crossley staff car and saying precisely the same words. That too had been in France, during the Great War, a lifetime ago, or so now it seemed, in what proved to be the final weeks of the Battle of the Somme.

It had been raining then too.

And, of course, it was in the aftermath of that other bloody awful business, the details of which Matthew had never divulged to anyone; not even to Tom and certainly not to Mary. And it was because of this, that while he did not and never would approve of the relationship between Simon and this man Foster - Alec - it meant that, as Matthew had just said to the both of them but a moment or two ago, there in the waiting room of the railway station, he did understand. indeed, far, far better than either Simon or Alec might ever have expected or supposed.

This, as the result of the memory of something with which he had lived for well over thirty years.

And about which Matthew had never told another living soul.

Tom thought him to be an honourable man; over the last quarter of a century and more, had told him so many times.

Only, Matthew knew he wasn't.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, late summer 1949.**

"Father! ... Yes ... Well, thank you ... Not at all ... How are you? ... Delighted ... I'm very glad to hear that ... Yes, it's very good to hear from you as well ... In the Channel? ... That bad? ... Yes, well, I know it can be like that at times ... No, sunny and warm here ... Well, that's Paris for you ... Maxim's? ... I'll say ... That really is pushing the boat out ... The Duke and Duchess of Windsor? ... Mama will be furious she wasn't with you! ... Well, where is these days? ... Not really. ... Pater, in case you've forgotten, I was only eleven at the time ... And how was the flight? ... Oh? ... A what? ... Yes, I've heard they're damned noisy to fly in ... There, what did I tell you! ... A thunderstorm over the Alps? ... No, I agree, not at all pleasant ... The line's not that good at this end either ... Yes, so you'll have to speak up! ... I'll do the same! ... There, that's much better ... Where? ... Menton? ... Oh, up there close to the border with Italy ... Yes ... So very picturesque then ... It sounds delightful ... Oh, now that sounds positively awful ... And you didn't know a thing about it? ... Yes ... I'm so very, very sorry ... No, for both of you ... Yes, but also for you as well ... So, no idea when, but longer than you anticipated? ... And that's in? ... Oh, Nice ... So you know it well then ... I didn't realise you'd been there with Mama ... Yes, well, I'm with you there ... Since the war, a great many places have changed ... No, not for the better ... Where? ... That's where they have the film festival, isn't it? ... Oh, not Cannes then ... As I said the line's bloody terrible ... You'll have to speak up ... I'll shout if need be ... No, I don't mean you're going deaf ... I can't hear you either ... Where? ... Spell it. C-a-g-n-e-s ... Cagnes? ... Never heard of the ruddy place ... Really? ... Pater, old chap, geography was never my thing ... Yes, yes, very funny! ... No, that wasn't why I was shot down in the war ... I know where Bournemouth is. In England ... On the south coast ... And Boulogne is in France ... On the north coast ... Of course I'm sure ... Know what? ... You should go on the stage ... Along with Uncle Tom ... That's right, a double act ... Just like Laurel and Hardy ... I wouldn't dare ... You choose which one ... Well, I'll have to take your word for that ... I don't know what Uncle Tom would think! ... Yes, everything here is fine and dandy ... Saiorse and the children send their love ... Somewhere around ... She took Alexander down to the Cottage Hospital this morning ... No, not serious ... Off his bicycle ... Saiorse thought he might have fractured it ... Just a bad sprain, apparently ... No, nothing more than that ... He's loving all the attention ... Rebecca and David? ... Out riding ... And, yes, making all sorts of plans ... No, well it isn't long now ... Not as far as I know ... Yes, that's what he told me too ... No, not much chance of that ... Yes, Saiorse's going with her into York ... Yes, that's what I just said ... For a fitting ... Yes, of course it's for her dress ... Yes, yesterday ... Three coaches of bloody grockles ... All the way from *... Yes, she did. Something about landmines ... Oh, Mama said the same to you, did she? ... That's right ... At the end of next month ... She said it can't come soon enough ... No, agreed. .. It isn't long till then ... Mama? ... Yes, I know she'll be very pleased ... Well not that pleased ... No, what you just said! ... Yes, the thought of Mama turning cartwheels in celebration across the West Lawn! ... Too funny for words! ... Of course, but only until next season though ... I know ... Yes, she and Emily left here as arranged ... That's right ... Down as far as Fishguard by train and then on the packet across to Rosslare ... Mama said the crossing was most unpleasant ... No, not the weather ... The other passengers ... She wondered how they had the means to travel ... Yes, that's what she said ... Yes, I know she is! No, just a couple of telegrams so far to say they'd arrived in one piece ... I expect she'll telephone later ... I believe so ... Aunt Sybil was driving! ... Yes, that what's I said, Aunt Sybil ... Like you apparently ... Very fast ... Yes, that's what I meant ... Oh, Danny told me he'd try and do just that ... Mama will be delighted ... It's a shame we couldn't ... Yes, all of us ... For David and Rebecca's wedding ... What did you just say? ... Good Lord! ... Did you say Simon? ... Well it is! ... Definitely a turn up for the books ... Simon! ... When? ... How is he? ... Hello! ... Hello! ... Operator? ... Yes, this is Downton Abbey, Robert Crawley speaking. My father was calling here, long distance, from France ... Oh, I see ... Then, thank you".

Robert slowly replaced the receiver in its cradle; half turned to see Saiorse and Alexander, his left arm bandaged in a sling. Saw too, standing behind them, both Rebecca and David, the two of them liberally spattered with mud from their afternoon ride over to Old Humphrey. Robert shook his head.

"I'm sorry. It's no use. The line's gone completely dead".

"So, when is father coming home?" asked Rebecca, her hand seeking David's own.

"He couldn't say, at least not with any degree of certainty".

"But he'll be back here in time for our wedding, won't he?" asked Rebecca nervously.  
"Yes, of course he will. Don't you worry. Long before that".

"So what did he say about Simon? Is Si' finally coming home? Because if so, then he can ..." This from David.

"I'm not sure, David. Depending on how long you've all been standing here, then you might have guessed that the line was pretty bad. It broke up completely there at the end. Something about he was hoping to see him. At least I think that's what father said".

"Darling, what else?"

"Look why don't the pair of you go and get changed. Then all four of us meet up in the sitting room, and I'll tell you all about it over a cup of tea. Shall we say in half an hour? Now old chap, how's that arm?"

* * *

 **Villa Artemis, Menton, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.**

"Darling, to act as your executor as you have asked me to do, is one thing but can't you see by this ... what it says here ... I couldn't possibly accept ..."

" _Mon chéri_ , my mind is made up. Besides who else should it go to? To Lars? _Non, jamais._ I think not!"

"Where is he now?" asked Matthew softly. Not that he particularly cared to know the precise whereabouts of the errant Lars.

"The last I 'eard of 'im, 'e was in Johannesburg. It was a mistake, was it not to go out there to Africa?"  
"You weren't to know that. You mustn't blame yourself".

"No, I was not to know". Alice laughed. Self mockingly. "But knowing Lars as I did, as I still do, I should 'ave realised that 'e would never change. And save for 'im, and a 'andful of others, the rest are dead now: the de Janzés, Frédéric and my namesake, Alice, Kiki, Jock ... And of course, Joss". Here her voice faltered. "'e was like you, you know ..."  
"Me?" Matthew sounded absolutely incredulous.

He couldn't begin to believe that he could have had anything at all in common with the late Josslyn Hay, 22nd Earl of Erroll, in both title and rank Scotland's premier peer, who had been shot dead in mysterious circumstances, out there in Kenya in January 1941, whose brutal murder still remained, at least officially, unsolved, and which had sent shock waves through the colony's white community.

Sensing Matthew's confusion, Alice smiled.

"So very 'andsome".

Matthew smiled.

"Ah! For a moment there I wondered what you meant! Then, thank you".

" _De rien_. As for all the rest _... peut-être,_ _peut-être pas"._ Alice spread her hands; shrugged dismissively, showing just what she thought of the rumours, both past and present, circulating about what was said to have happened out there in east Africa. Of course, Matthew knew exactly to whom Alice was referring; those she had mentioned had, before the war, been part of the notorious Happy Valley Set, whose hedonistic exploits in Kenya were, thanks in part to the gutter press, now well known; in fact, notoriously so, involving, allegedly, both drug use and sexual promiscuity.

"Don't look so shocked, _mon chéri_. I knew most of them of course. But I was never ... _intime. Lars,_ _d'autre part ..."_ Alice spread her hands again. She had no need to say anything else. From her letters, Matthew knew that, out there in Kenya, Alice's former husband had thrown himself into society. Which was presumably how he had contracted the syphilis which he had passed to Alice.

"And who do you think ..."  
"Killed Joss? When next I see 'im, I shall ask".

Alice gave another small laugh.

But her laughter, as before, it rang hollow.

* * *

 **Battle of the Somme, Western Front, France, September 1916.**

Although dawn had broken a couple of hours ago, what with both the heavy bank of cloud as well as the incessant rain, down here in the depths of the outpost trench, the most forward of the British lines, where as was customary at this time of the morning presently everyone was stood to, not only was it cold and wet, but it was also still quite dark.

Suddenly, from the sap head there came a shouted warning for all to take cover. In fact, only just in time as, a moment later, in the darkness, from somewhere close at hand there came a terrific flash of orange and red flame as, and with a deafening roar, a woolly bear exploded, the detonation of the heavy German shell making everything here within the candlelit dug-out rattle and shake. Causing too there to descend from the boards lining the ceiling a shower of mud which landed on the individual below, sitting hunched at a makeshift desk.

On the face of it, the man was seemingly completely unperturbed by what had just happened. But sometimes, appearances can be deceptive. Thankfully, the cold shiver, which had taken him between the shoulders on hearing the shouted warning, was known only to the man himself. Now, glancing up at the still quivering boards of the ceiling of the _abri_ , calmly, the officer brushed off the mud which had fallen not only on himself but also on the letter which he had been writing. Again from outside, above the staccato chatter of machine gun fire, rattling away in two-step time, _ta-ra-rum-tum-tum_. Simultaneously there now came the thump of a quarter to ten fired back in return at Fritz's lines and a stentorian shout for stretcher bearers. At least for someone, the shouted warning from the sap head had come too late. The woolly bear would have been packed with lethal shards of shrapnel and whoever it was who had failed to take cover quickly enough had evidently copped a packet.

Within the dug-out, like the flies which had been clustered on the ceiling, evidently also disturbed by the noise of the two explosions, a pair of black rats now scurried, squeaking, across the muddy floor. Scowling at the vermin, pen in hand, Captain Matthew Crawley paused. Re-read the words which he had just written.

 _Please take comfort from the fact that your son did not suffer ..._

At the entrance to the dug-out, he heard someone shuffle their feet then clear their throat. Matthew half turned in his chair and now, in the flickering gleam of candlelight, on recognising the Tommy standing in the doorway, he smiled.

"Yes, what is it Private Mason ... William?"  
William grinned; self consciously, thought Matthew.

"I'm the char-wallah for today, sir. Thought you might like some. William smiled; held out an enamel mug. Both battered and chipped, clearly, it had seen far better days.

"Thank you".

William nodded; ducking his head, he came into the dugout; set down the battered mug containing what he had said was tea on the surface of the improvised desk which, like the planking of the ceiling of the dug-out, had been cobbled together from out of wood salvaged from several packing cases. Matthew cast a suspicious eye, first at the mug, and then at its contents; a viscous, steaming brown liquid. Tea? Well, perhaps, but from past experience, he knew that here in the trenches, it did not do to enquire too closely as to from what it had been made. What Matthew was thinking must all too obviously have shown in his face.

"It's sergeant-major's, sir!" William grinned again.

"Is it indeed? In that case, I'll drink it directly then".

Matthew contrived a wry smile.

William stood back; nodded towards the letter Matthew was writing.

"For Private Bowen's family, sir?"

While he might have told any other soldier of Mason's rank not to be so inquisitive, to mind his own damned business, with it being William, Matthew saw no reason to conceal the fact.

"Yes".

"If you don't mind me saying so, sir, what happened this morning ... it was a bad show".

"No, I don't mind you saying so". Matthew glanced at the doorway of the dug-out; lowered his voice. "And, between ourselves, yes, it was. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have ..." Matthew indicated lying before him the unfinished letter.

"Yes, sir".

Private 17982 William Mason came quickly to attention; saluted briskly.

A moment later and he was gone, out back out into the muddy, rat infested trench to join his mates.

Not, thought Matthew, that guileless, kind-hearted, trusting William had the slightest inkling of the fact that what both of them had been party to earlier this morning had been anything other than what it purported to be. Whereas in fact, what had been done had been both a disgrace and a travesty.

* * *

 **Route de Vence, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.**

Thankfully, shortly after they left the railway station, the storm finally passed over, the rain ceased, and the sun shone, beating down on all and sundry from out of a cloudless blue sky. People ventured back onto the streets, out into the fields, and life once more took up the pattern of its daily rhythm.

Here in Cagnes, seated at a pavement café, a smattering of patrons could be seen enjoying a drink or two, reading a newspaper, or else engaged in conversation. Next door to the café, a _boulangerie_ was doing a brisk trade in fresh bread, further along the street women were queuing outside a _boucherie_ for meat, while outside a _cave_ run by _Rougeau et Fils_ , men were busy unloading huge wooden barrels from off a horse drawn dray.

And out in the countryside, both in the vineyards and the lavender fields, the harvest resumed; in the vineyards the _vendangeurs_ were working their way methodically between the rows of vines, collecting the precious fruit in their hods, before emptying them into huge wicker baskets to be taken to the farm, there to begin the age old process of turning the cut bunches of grapes into wine. And in the lavender fields too, the sight of very much the same back breaking work in progress; the sweet smelling stalks likewise gathered by hand, this time only by women, each of whom was armed with nothing more than a small sickle and a wooden tub, the cut lavender thereafter carried back to the still.

But everywhere too, evidence of the unrelenting downpour of the last few hours.

The umbrella pines, the cypresses and the olive trees, as well as the fronds of the palms, were darkly sodden; so too the grape laden vines. Rain water dripped from eaves, ran along gutters, and trickled down pipes; the terracotta tiled roofs of the shuttered, stone buildings which sprawled all out over the hillside and up to Haut Cagnes, the narrow streets, and the little cobbled squares, glimpsed briefly through narrow archways, glistened in the sunlight, while at the side of the road a frothing torrent of muddy brown water cascaded down the deep gutter and towards the blue of the distant sea.

* * *

At yet another bend in the twisting road, lying athwart the gutter, Matthew glimpsed the carcass of a small deer. There was nothing at all to show either why or how it came to be lying where it was. Perhaps hit and killed there by a passing lorry or maybe it had died or been killed somewhere else; the carcass washed down from further up the wooded hillside. Not that it really mattered. What did though, was the sight of blood mingling with the rainwater.

Just as it had done then.

* * *

 **Skerries House, County Cork, Ireland, late summer 1949.**

"How's Emily feeling now?" asked Sybil.

"I didn't like to disturb her," said Mary.

"Well, I expect Claire will look in on her before she and Danny come downstairs".

"She's probably just tired after all the travelling".

"Yes, I'm sure that's what it is".

"Of course".

"So, darling, just when is Matthew likely to return?" asked Sybil, admittedly somewhat distractedly, now looking as she was directly across the room at where Tom was peering surreptitiously through the drawn curtains, almost as if he was watching some sordid peep show in the Monto. "Tom, darling, what on earth are you doing?"  
"Looking".  
"So I can see. At what?"  
"The fog. It's turned into a real witch's brew out there tonight, for sure".

"Maybe it has. But as we're all safe and sound inside, it needn't concern us. Danny and Claire will be down shortly too, once they've settled the boys. Now come over here". Sybil smiled; patted the seat of the sofa next to her.

"For sure. Although Dermot said something about going back down to the workshop".

"At this time? What on earth for?"  
"He didn't say".

Sybil shook her head in disbelief. Men! Sometimes she thought she didn't understand them at all.

"Well, darling, that's the point," began Mary who had only just come downstairs after keeping her promise made to young Josef to tell him stories about his late father. She now seated herself opposite Sybil. "But what I don't understand, is why he has to stay on ..." At that precise moment, with Tom having done as he had been asked, as he sat down on the sofa beside Sybil, the telephone began to ring shrilly. Tom promptly lifted the receiver.

"Skerries House ..."

* * *

 **Route de Vence,** **Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.**

Now, as the 2CV splashed into, through, and then out of, a deep pool of water, before Alec Foster deftly steered the motor into yet another tortuous hairpin bend on the twisting, turning road which, climbing all the way, led up from the coast to St. Paul de Vence, here, seated in the back of the car along with his luggage, once more Matthew found both himself and his suitcases sliding over to the opposite side of the vehilce from that on which he was sitting. This, directly behind Simon, who save for the occasional monosyllabic, _yes_ or _no_ so far had uttered scarcely another single word since their heated encounter down at the railway station in Cagnes.

"Sorry!" called out Alec cheerfully, on catching sight of what had happened in the rear view mirror.

That Foster was doing what he could to make the best of a fraught situation had not gone unnoticed by Matthew.

"There's no harm done! Don't mind me!"

Alec nodded.

"Anyway, it's not far now! That's St. Paul, over there to the right!"

Matthew nodded; at a quick glance, took in the little walled town perched on top of a hill, its huddle of honey coloured, grey stone buildings nestling beneath their terracotta tiled roofs, all clustering round the bell tower of a church, and surrounded by vineyards and pine trees.

A far cry from stately Downton and its rolling green acres. Nonetheless, here in the warm sunshine, the ancient walled town of St. Paul looked delightful.

"Yes, so I can see".

* * *

 **Battle of the Somme, Western Front, France, September 1916.**

After William had gone, Matthew sighed; had sat back in his chair. He felt utterly wretched. He had meant what he said; every word.

 _It_ had been a bad show.

Decidedly so.

And what was worse, indeed infinitely so, was that he himself had been complicit in what had happened here, in the cold grey light of this morning's dawn, and which had followed the normal pattern of such dreadful occurrences.

Almost invariably, those condemned to death by firing squad had their sentences confirmed by the C-in-C, Field Marshal Sir Douglas Haig on the evening following their court-martial. A chaplain would be sent to spend the night in the cell with the condemned man and execution took place the following day at dawn. Matthew had heard tell that some men faced their last moments on this earth, drugged with morphine or drunk with alcohol, their eyes blindfolded, before being tied, almost unconscious, to a wooden stake some ten yards from the firing squad - usually made up of six soldiers - the members of which were ordered to shoot at the piece of white cloth pinned to the man's uniform directly over his heart.

It had been this way for Bowen.

* * *

In the pouring rain, the Crossley bringing the officers to the site of the execution now drew up on the narrow, muddy road leading to the abandoned, half destroyed farmhouse. Close by stood the windmill, likewise now ruined, the existence of which, presumably, had helped to give the wrecked village its name.

As Matthew climbed down out of the motor, the last of the red tabs to do so, William saluted once again. For one brief instant, their eyes met.

"I feel like I'm a bloody chauffeur. Only I'm not," he hissed; droplets of rain dripping continually from the brim of his peaked cap.

"No, of course you're not. But thank you anyway".

Matthew turned away; sick at heart, squelched off through the mud and the rain.

In his mind's eye, from the vantage point, a pile of tumbled, weed grown bricks and smashed masonry, he had occupied with the other officers, Matthew saw again the men standing out in the lane behind the high brick wall in order that, while they would not see the execution, they would still hear the shots, now called to attention. Saw at the given sign, those other six over in the muddy farmyard on the other side of the wall, now pick up their rifles. It was a common belief that in the cylinder of one of the rifles there was a blank round, so that no member of the firing squad could be sure who it was who had fired the fatal shot. Not that Matthew believed that. After all, any soldier worth his salt would know whether or not he had fired a live round or a blank.

Then the next barked command:

"Present ...

Saw Lieutenant Fetherstonhaugh who was in charge of the firing squad lower his white handkerchief.

Heard again too the nervous volley of shots that followed. A ragged volley. Yet for all that, still a volley.

Watching, Matthew wondered if some of the lads who had taken aim and fired had deliberately done their best to miss the target. If so, this made an awful situation much worse. While several bullets missed Bowen completely at least three had hit him; taken him in the chest and in the legs.

As the sound of the volley died away, silence reigned, save that was for Bowen screaming for his mother, blood oozing from his uniform, pooling in the puddles at his feet. Beside him, Matthew saw one of the other officers make a signal to Fetherstonhaugh, who standing in the middle of the farmyard shaking like a leaf, that he should make an end of it. For one brief moment, Matthew thought Fetherstonhaugh would faint but fortunately, he recovered himself. Walked, admittedly none too steadily, over to where Bowen was still screaming for his mother, took out his Webley service revolver, pressed the muzzle against Bowen's temple, and pulled the trigger.

A single shot.

It was over.

Save that was for the MO confirming that Bowen was dead.

He was.

Life extinct.

* * *

Several of those in the firing squad now formed the stretcher party in charge of seeing Bowen cut down and then buried. This grisly business now taken in hand, with the other men lined up in the lane dismissed, the officers made for the staff car. Bringing up the rear, Matthew caught fragments of their conversation.

"Me?"  
"Surely. Yes, I went to the trial ..."

"I detest that kind of bastard".  
"Indeed. The sort of man one can't abide".

"I hoped there'd be no reprieve. That the little blighter would be shot".

"Agreed".

"Bloody coward".

Matthew wanted to scream; shout it from the rooftops.

 _This had nothing at all to do with cowardice!_

Except, that was, for his own.

* * *

 **La Rosière, near Nantes, Brittany, France, late summer 1949.**

 _"... and despite the various armistices, Uncle Efraim says the situation out there, while much improved, is far from certain, which means, therefore, that, at least for the present, neither Stefan nor I will be sailing to Israel after all. We'll be staying on here, in Lisbon"._

Edith smiled; looked up at Kurt who was standing over by the massive fireplace and its presently unlit, empty hearth, leaning nonchalantly back against the mantle shelf.

"And if you don't mind, Mama, the rest of it, I don't intend to read you. It's ... rather ... private". Kurt blushed. Carefully folded the sheets of the letter and stuffed them back into the envelope. Seeing him blush, while he re-folded the letter, Edith had the good sense to look away; let Kurt compose himself. When she was certain that he had done so, she then spoke, choosing her words with deliberate care.

"No, not at all. I understand perfectly. So, then, will you come with us?"

Kurt smiled; nodded his head.

"Of course. I wouldn't miss it for the world. But on one condition".

"Which is?"

"That ..."

* * *

 **St. Paul de Vence, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.**

The 2CV had come to a stop in a small, sun drenched square. Alec turned.

"I'm afraid this is as far as we go; where we are, the street's far too narrow for the motor," he said apologetically.

"There's really no need to apologise. I understand perfectly. It's a bit like in the Shambles in York," replied Matthew affably, unaware that, unintentionally, he had touched a raw nerve. After all, it had been in The Shambles that Alec had been arrested on a charge of gross indecency, and of which he had been entirely innocent.

* * *

 **Maison des Colombes, St. Paul de Vence.**

"Well, this is it. What do you think?" asked Simon. He and Alec both stood to one side: let Matthew look up at the façade of the house. Privately, Matthew was touched. Indeed even faintly amused, that his opinion should matter to them so much.

But evidently it did.

With undisguised interest, Matthew looked at the shuttered façade of the house.

With his long standing experience of repairs being undertaken to buildings all over the Downton estate, in turn he took in the retiled roof, the newly pointed stonework, the repainted windows, along with the renewed gutters and down pipes. Moved back as far as he could, until he was standing hard against the front wall of the building directly opposite on the other side of the narrow street. Now looked back at Alec and Simon. Saw that both of them were awaiting his verdict. Not of course that he had yet seen the inside of the house. Matthew suppressed a smile. Not for nothing was he known for his diplomatic skills. He would offer them the proverbial olive branch. But before that, he would permit himself the briefest of fun at their expense.

"So, you two chaps want my honest opinion then?"

"Of course". Matthew saw Simon and Alec exchange nervous glances.

"Well now ..."

With memories of his time spent on stage during his schooldays, for dramatic effect, Matthew now paused.

The silence lengthened.

Simon proved unable to contain himself.

"And?"

"What I think ... is that it's positively charming".

* * *

With Matthew having been shown over the whole house, as well as seeing for himself both the cleared garden and the still ruined _colombier_ , Simon saw him settled comfortably into what one day would be one of the guest bedrooms of the _pensione. W_ hile Matthew freshened up, before they all went down together for a bite to eat in the Bar Nicolas, Simon now went in search of Alec, whom he found, predictably enough, upstairs in the studio.

Hearing footsteps on the stone staircase, Alec turned and, on seeing who it was, he smiled.

"So, how did the talk with your father go?"

Simon came to stand beside Alec. Placed his arm around his friend's shoulders.

"Thank you for asking. Better than could have been expected. He asked me if we'd consider going back ..."

"To Downton?" Alec raised his eyebrows.

Simon nodded.

"Only for a visit. I said I'd think about it. Nothing more".

"Well, it's a start".

"Hm, maybe. Now, that's very good. See, I told you. You do have the talent". Simon nodded enthusiastically towards the picture resting on the easel; a half finished sketch of the countryside hereabouts with St. Paul in the background.

Alec grinned.

"Thank you for the resounding vote of confidence".

"I meant what I said. And you did all of this ..."

"While you were talking with your father? Yes. That's the odd thing ..."

"What ..."

Footsteps again sounded on the stone steps of the staircase and a moment later Matthew appeared in the doorway.

"I thought I heard voices ... I hope you don't mind me trespassing?"

"No, not at all. Come in". Despite his own political views, Alec found himself warming to this quietly spoken, unassuming man who represented everything he despised.

Matthew nodded; walked over to the easel.

"Well, I"m no artist but even I can see that you have a rare, rare gift".

"Thank you". Alec smiled.

"Right, well, if we want to be sure of finding a table ..."

"Yes, of course". Followed by Simon, Matthew set off down the steps.

A minute later, Simon reappeared in the doorway, to find Alec still seated at his easel.

"Alec? What on earth are you doing?"

"Nothing. I was just coming".

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, of course. Only, for a moment there I thought that I ..."  
"Thought that you what?"  
"It doesn't matter. I'll tell you about it later".

* * *

 **Battle of the Somme, Western Front, France, September 1916.**

That miserable morning, seated in the rear of the staff car, on the way back from the site of Bowen's execution, the doleful journey made yet even more dismal by a continuous, drenching fall of rain, in a black mood, Captain Matthew Crawley sat in stony silence, hearing the boom of distant, muffled gunfire, gazing mournfully out through the falling rain at the shattered, warn torn landscape of the Western Front where once long familiar landmarks such as churches, chapels, houses, farms, fields, woods, trees, and hedgerows had all long since disappeared.

To be replaced in turn by what he saw now.

A barren wasteland, a sea of churned mud, scarred by snakelike coils of barbed wire and lines of sandbagged trenches that zigzagged their way across what resembled a lunar landscape, pock marked by enormous water-filled craters while here and there a solitary grave was marked with a wooden cross. Any discernible landmarks that there were now took the form of a wrecked aeroplane, an abandoned tank, and the bodies of dead horses. Even, dead men or what remained of them: bloated, decaying corpses crawling with maggots and covered inches deep in a disgusting heaving black mass of flies which, if accidentally disturbed, flew _en masse_ up into one's face, finding their way into each and every orifice, into one's mouth, into the eyes, and into the nostrils.

* * *

While Matthew was firmly of the opinion that the ambitions of the Kaiser had to be circumscribed, that when German troops had marched into neutral Belgium in August 1914, Britain had been left with no choice other than to do what she had done, that did not mean that he believed in the pompous, vainglorious rubbish expatiated by many about the virtue of dying for one's country.

And usually spouted by those who would never find themselves out here in uniform, in the living hell that was now called the Western Front.

As a lover of the Classics, Matthew knew only too well the line from the Roman poet Horace's _Odes_ :

 _Dulce et decorum est, pro patria mori_.

But after what he had seen during the last two years he had spent out here in France, even more so after what he had witnessed today, he no longer believed it _._

* * *

Having been dropped off by the Crossley, Matthew turned towards the communication trench which, if he followed it all the way, he knew would bring him to the advanced line. To witness a military execution had been bad enough but what he had seen take place this morning made Matthew sick to the very pit of his stomach, knowing as he did that the man shot had been entirely innocent of what it was he had been found guilty.

A moment or two later, having managed, but only just in time, to make it behind the jakes, and so therefore be out of sight of everyone, something for which he was later exceedingly grateful, Matthew vomited up his breakfast.

* * *

 **Bar Nicolas, St. Paul de Vence, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.**

Looking about him, amused by what he now saw, Matthew smiled. The bar reminded him of his days spent as a student in Oxford. Reflected that, had dearest Tom been sitting with the three of them here tonight in the noisy Bar Nicolas situated in one of the narrow streets of St. Paul de Vence, given Tom's sense of humour, which was often self-deprecating, in all likelihood he might very well have been prompted to crack a joke about an Englishman, an Irishman, and a Frenchman. Only while there were undoubtedly three Englishmen - an earl, a communist, and an atheist - and several Frenchmen in attendance, there was, as far as Matthew was aware, not a single Irishmen here present.

As the wine flowed, their conversation had taken in a variety of subjects, including the thorny one of the relationship between Alec and Simon ...

"Over here, we have the chance to live our lives the way we want to. And we don't need either society or position to do so".

"Maybe. But is that something which both of you intend pursuing at the risk of imperilling your immortal souls?" asked Matthew quietly.

Simon shook his head.

"No, because neither of us believes in that religious guff of hellfire and damnation. At least not any more".

"Is this your doing?" Matthew shot a withering glance at Alec.

"No. Why should it be? At least have the decency to give Si' the credit for being intelligent enough to think things out for himself".

"Or don't you think I'm bright enough?" asked Simon, clearly indignant that he should be considered wanting, while continuing to pour each of them another glass of wine. Now signalled to Anton that he should bring over a new bottle.  
"No, that's not what I meant at all. Of course you have the wit to think things out for yourself. And while you may not believe me, returning to what we were discussing earlier ... I do recognise that not everyone wants to live their lives the same way as I do".

"And a jolly damned good job too! After all, if we did, most of us would end up sorely disappointed," observed Alec lounging back in his chair.  
"How so?"

Alec grinned.

"Well, there can't be that many places the size of Downton!"

At that, even Matthew had to laugh.

"Touché! No, indeed not. Castle Howard, perhaps?" He smiled. "But, while I fully agree with you that there are many ills in society, that doesn't mean I want to tear up the rule book and start all over again. If either of you have read _Animal Farm_ ..."

"Have you?" asked Alec.  
"Yes".

Alec couldn't contain himself.

"I'm very much impressed. Not only that you've heard of it but also to learn that you've actually read it!"

"Well, you've Simon's Irish uncle to thank for that. No, thank you, I don't". This last in response to Alec's offer of a cigarette.

"The newspaper editor?" Alec struck a match and lit his _Gauloises_. Inhaled deeply.

Matthew nodded.

Took a sip of wine.

Set down his glass.

"This really is very good. Yes, the very same. But now retired. I thought the book was very cleverly done, I must say. That said, what it shows, at least to me, is that violent revolution, as happened in Russia, achieves precisely nothing. That it merely replaces one set of masters with another. By the way, when your mother saw me reading it, she thought I was proposing buying new pigs for Home Farm".

Simon laughed.

"That sounds just like Mama!" The first time he had made mention of his mother's name other than in anger.

Matthew smiled. Seized the opportunity.

"So, will you come back to Downton? If only for a visit. Both of you".

"Father, as I told you, I said I'll think about it. But I'm making no promises".

And with that, Matthew had to be content.

* * *

"What you said earlier today ... back there at the station ... about you understanding ... us. Did you really mean it?"

The wine Simon had drunk seemed to have gone to his head; either that or else here in La Belle France, he had shed most of his English inhibitions. It appeared also to have done the same for Matthew for now he did something which he would never have done in England. At least not in a public setting. He reached forward and clasped Simon's hand.

"Have you ever known me to say something that wasn't true?"

"Not when it mattered. No".

"Well then".

Now heard again Alice's words, to whom he had been speaking the day before yesterday about Simon:

 _Il y a parfois des vérités que nous ne pouvons pas nier._

 _Sometimes there are truths that we cannot deny._

Then so be it.

Time, thought Matthew, to try and lay one of the ghosts of his own past and in so doing, perhaps reach an accommodation of sorts with Simon ... and Alec.

So, where to begin?

For a moment, Matthew sat gazing into the middle distance. Then, as he began to speak, it seemed that at least for the three of them seated here at this table, the hubbub in the Bar Nicolas faded into silence.

"Where it happened ... was on the edge of a little French village called, appropriately enough, Moulin-le-Mort-Homme. Try looking for it on a map of France. Look as much as you like. You won't find it. The village ceased to exist in 1916. But what took place there that day was only the end of the story. It began a few weeks earlier, when a young private by the name of Bowen asked me if he might have a quiet word ... "

 **Author's Note:**

Maxim's, in Paris, once considered the most famous restaurant in the world. After WWII, it became very popular with individuals such as the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, Maria Callas, and Aristotle Onassis.

The idea to hold an annual film festival in Cannes began in the early 1930s. However, nothing happened until just after the end of WWII, the first festival being held in 1946. Compared to today, it was a small affair and the whole enterprise nearly foundered because of financial problems.

Sap head - end of a sap, a short trench dug out into No-Man's Land to act as a listening post.

 _Abri_ \- shelter or dug-out - from the French.

Quarter to ten - British 9.45 inch trench mortar.

Fritz's lines - the German trenches.

Cop a packet - to be wounded.

Sergeant-major's (tea) - a decent brew. Tea that had in it both milk and sugar.

The Happy Valley Set - a group of British aristocrats who settled in Kenya in the 1920s. Their hedonistic lifestyle became a byword for drug taking and promiscuity. Several of the group would die by their own hands. Their exploits were the subject of the film, _White Mischief_.

The Monto - Dublin's notorious red light district, its brothels used mainly by British soldiers garrisoned in the city. Following the establishment of the Irish Free State in 1922 and the withdrawal of the British garrison, the prostitutes lost most of their custom and fell on hard times. A moral crusade by the Catholic Church saw the remaining brothels shut down in 1925.

MO - Medical Officer.

 _the various armistices_ \- in 1949 the then newly established State of Israel signed armistices with several of its Arab neighbours who had been fighting against the Jewish state ever since it came into being in 1948.

 _Animal Farm_ by the English novelist George Orwell (1903-1950) and first published in 1945, is an allegory of the Russian Revolution.

While Moulin-Le-Mort-Homme is my own creation, during four years of fighting on the Western Front many Belgian and French villages were destroyed, some so completely that they were never rebuilt.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Honourable Men

 **Skerries Cove, County Cork, Ireland, late summer 1949.**

Out in the wild waters of the Western Approaches, the fog bank had descended silently, without warning, enshrouding the SS. Siegfried, out of Hamburg and bound for Cork with a cargo of what in the manifest was described as _agricultural machinery_ , in a damp, salty miasma of thick, grey mist.

Down below, midst the noise and heat of the engine room, when it was rung through the order to go "Full Astern" came too late. Moments after that there was an appalling grating and rending of metal as the bow of the tramp steamer struck against the edge of the reef and then, propelled by the forward motion of the vessel, ran hard aground on the rocks off Skerries Point.

On board, in what passed for the saloon, the steamer's two unofficial passengers, who had been enjoying a few whiskies, found themselves flung off their seats and onto the floor by the force of the unexpected impact; above them in the wheelhouse and out on deck, among the crew, pandemonium ensued as, but a short while after, the steamer began listing heavily to port and settling by the head.

* * *

 **Maison des Colombes, St. Paul de Vence, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.**

In the quiet of the _atelier_ , at the top of the empty, silent house, a long-forgotten cupboard door, sealed fast these many years by layer upon layer of paint, and doubtless jarred loose by all the renovations, swung open.

* * *

 **Skerries House, County Cork, Ireland, late summer 1949.**

Here, up at the Big House, Tom was completely taken aback, both by the fact that it was Emily on the telephone, and on hearing what it was that she now had to relate.

"A ship's run aground down there in the fog, off the cove, yous say?"

The telephone line crackled ominously.

"Yes, Uncle Tom. That's right. Derry's down there now".

"Darlin', yous need to speak up".

At the other end of the line, down in Danny's office in the stables, Emily did as she had been asked, raising her voice, and enunciating each word carefully.

"That's what Derry told me to tell you, Uncle Tom. That you have to let the Harbour Master in Kinsale know. And he asked me to say that Aunt Sybil should have blankets and hot drinks ready. That you'd understand".

"Grand. Yes, we'll do all that, for sure".

"Do what?" Sybil asked, immediately on the alert for what it was that Tom evidently had in mind to do.

"What about the ... Hello! Hello!" Tom shook his head. "Feck! The line's gone dead. There's another ship gone aground down there in the cove ..."

"Yes, I gathered that ..."

"Darlin', like last time, what we'll be needing is hot drinks and blankets. I'll telephone the Harbour Master in Kinsale, then head for the beach. Dermot's there already, doing what he ..."

"You'll do no such thing!"  
Tom's face assumed an aggrieved expression.

"But, darlin' I only want to ..."  
"No, Tom! And there's an end of it. Telephone the Harbour Master by all means, but as for the rest, Danny and Claire will see to that. And then, if there are any injured crew members to attend to, Claire will be on hand to do what needs to be done, before they are taken off to hospital".

Mary glanced first at Claire, and then at Sybil.

"Darling, is that really very wise? I mean in her ..."

"My condition?" Claire laughed. "Aunt Mary, the baby isn"t due for months. But it's very sweet of you to care". Claire turned to Sybil. "Yes, of course, I'll get my bag. Danny, darling, will you fetch the car?"

Followed closely by Danny, Claire made for the door.

"For sure! But I t'ink it would be better if we took the truck instead. It's here in the yard and there's plenty of room in the back, if we have to bring anyone up to the house. If we go down past the stables, turn onto the road that heads over towards Donovan's, we'll eventually come out on the lane that leads to Kinsale. A mile or so further on we can turn in at the gate just up from the cove. I know it'll be a bit bumpy there across the fields, but at least we'll have gone as far as we can go by motor".

As always in a crisis, Sybil became just as practical.

"And while you two are off gallivanting around the countryside in Danny's truck, Aunt Mary and I will do what has to be done here: mashing tea and making up a couple of extra beds". Sybil suppressed a sudden urge to smile; wondered if Mary had ever brewed a pot of tea, let alone made up a bed. "Is that all right with you, Mary?"

Her own troubles forgotten, if only for the present, Mary nodded her head.

"Darling, yes, of course. But, Emily ... what about her?"

"Don't worry, she's safe and sound at the stables. I suppose they must both have heard the rockets and gone down to investigate, for sure".

"Tom, dear, that wasn't what I meant. What I mean is, what were they doing down there in the first place?"

At that, Sybil and Tom exchanged meaningful glances.

"Mary, darling, please, not now," hissed Sybil, realising, resignedly so, that yet another talk with Dermot would be necessary.

"Don't worry, Aunt Mary! Emily'll be just fine. In any case, we'll stop off at the stables and make sure. If yous want to, yous could come with us. There's room enough in the cab for three. Then, if Emily's still there and not gone down to join Dermot on the beach, the two of yous can walk back here together".

Mary grimaced.

A night time walk along a foggy drive, with a recalcitrant Emily in tow, sounded distinctly unappealing. And while sitting sedately in the back of a chauffeur driven Rolls Royce was one thing, bouncing across the fogbound Irish countryside seated in the cab of a lorry was an entirely different proposition. In comparison, brewing pots of tea and making up beds for shipwrecked mariners seemed positively attractive.

"Danny, dear, thank you, but no. I think I'll stay here and help your mother. But rockets, you say? Won't it be very dangerous for you?"

"No, for sure!" Danny grinned.

"Distress rockets, fired from off the ship" explained Tom quickly. "They make one hell of a bang when they go off, for sure. But what I still don't understand though is what the ship was doing there in the first place. Why on earth was she was so close inshore? And then what about the Kinsale Light ... Did she miss that too?"

"The Kinsale Light? What's that?"

"The lighthouse on Old Head of Kinsale".

Mary nodded.

"And you said this has happened before?"

"Yes, to be sure. A couple of times. But while each of the two ships was floated off at high tide, that was in the autumn, with a full south wester' blowing".

"A what?"

"A southwesterly gale. That's what sent the two other ships onto the rocks. No lives lost, thankfully but last night, there was only the fog". Tom shook his head. "It doesn't make any sense. Not unless ..."  
"Unless what?" asked Sybil, pausing and turning as she reached the door.

Tom shook his head.  
"It doesn't matter".

"Tom!"  
"Ask me no questions ..." Tom grinned, tapped the side of his nose, and as Sybil and Mary quickly followed Claire and Danny out into the hall, he picked up the receiver to call the Harbour Master down in Kinsale.

* * *

 **La Rosiere, near Nantes, Brittany, France, late summer 1949.**

"So, will you, dearest Mama?"

"Of course my darling. If it's what you really want".

"It is".

"Then, if you give me the address, I'll write directly".

Kurt positively beamed.

* * *

 **Bar Nicolas, St. Paul de Vence, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.**

Here in the noisy, smoke filled Bar Nicolas, seeing Simon and Alec smile at each other, before exchanging a brief, inaudible aside, Matthew paused in what he had been about to say, recalling to mind something Alice had said when he had first told her about Simon.

"Chéri, it has ever been so; the English have always been unwilling to accept that love takes many forms".

Reluctantly, Matthew had to agree with the simple truth of that.

Saw that Simon and Alec were once more politely attentive; that both of them appeared agog to hear what it was he had to relate. At this, Matthew contrived a wry smile.

"Oh, don't be too eager to learn what it is that I have to tell you. I suspect that when I am done with the narrative of this, it will be one tale you would prefer never to have heard".

Once again, Matthew paused.

And then he began.

* * *

"Now, while Simon has some experience of being under shellfire, you, Mr. Foster, I know have not. That said, what both of you need to understand is that several weeks before what I have to tell you took place, the Battle of the Somme had begun. Some will say that the fighting there began with our infantry attacking on 1st July 1916 but that isn't the truth of it at all. In fact, it started a week earlier, on a dull wet day; one of low cloud and heavy rain. What we, the British, called _U Day_ ; 24th June.

Imagine, if you both can, an artillery bombardment so intense that during it the British Army would fire nearly two million shells, an onslaught along a fourteen mile front that went on continuously, day and night, for seven whole days, turning the ground between us and the German trenches into a blasted, desolate wasteland. Indeed, the noise of the guns became so loud that at times it was impossible even to hear oneself speak. There were times when I thought the shelling would knock the world off its axis. And while all of this continued, beneath it, out there in No Man's Land, our men were busy trying to cut their way through the coiled tangles of the enemy's barbed wire. Not of course that we had any real way of knowing whether or not our shelling was achieving anything. Over the next few days, the reports which came into British HQ from the raiding parties we sent out were, to say the least, mixed. Yes, we learned of German trenches being badly damaged and some being only lightly held. But then there were other reports saying that on other parts of the front the German trenches were full of enemy infantry who, aware that something was about to happen, were on the alert. Yet, interrogation of the few prisoners we captured painted a different picture: cowed by the shellfire, the prisoners said the German lines were expecting only local attacks".

"But not you ... You didn't believe them?"  
Matthew shook his head.

"No. In fact, several of us didn't; myself included. It all seemed far too easy. That our generals and also many of our officers were hearing only what they wanted to hear and totally disregarding anything which ran contrary to that. The thinking was that our heavy artillery would destroy all of the German trenches, emplacements, strong points and their artillery. The release of both gas and smoke would deceive the Hun as to our intentions, and all the tracks and roads would be shelled at night, to stop supplies and relief units coming up to the German trenches. So, our shelling increased, some of our Divisions firing 4-500 shells per gun per day but once again the reports that came in were contradictory: some German trenches were said to be devoid of defenders but some of our raiding parties also found the enemy present in greater numbers than before and even more alert".

Without being asked to do so, Alec refilled Matthew's empty glass.

"Thank you".

"But the shelling didn't ..." began Simon.

"Destroy the German wire?" Having taken a sip of wine, Matthew shook his head; set down his glass on the stained wooden surface of the table "No, it didn't. Nor did it wipe out their fortifications. And it did nothing to subdue the German artillery. So, when, at last, the order came through, on 1st July, for our infantry to go over the top ...

The prelude to our advance was when we detonated the mines beneath the German lines up on Hawthorn Ridge at Beaumont Hamel. On our side, what I heard - and I wasn't even in the front line - was an ear-splitting roar, felt the ground beneath my feet shake. as, I suppose, did everyone else. Saw an enormous mass of earth climbing 3, 4, 5000 feet into the sky. Then came the repercussion. A moment later, the second mine exploded, followed quickly by the very same roar, the ground shaking once again and then another massive cloud of earth lifting skywards. At last, the dust settled. What I saw through my field glasses were two enormous craters where the German fortifications had been. If this was my ... our ... experience of it all, then God knows what it was like for the Hun".

"But they were the enemy. Surely you ..."

"Indeed. But for the most part, they were honourable men fighting for what they believed in. And they were also human beings too. As a Conscientious Objector in the last show, I'm sure you of all people will understand that".

Alec nodded. he hadn't expected a former serving British officer to be at all sympathetic to the plight of the enemy.

"Anyway, one day, while all of this was going on, a dispatch rider rode up on a motorbike with further orders from HQ". Matthew smiled at Simon. "The 'bike as I recollect, was very similar if not identical to the one that is your Uncle Tom's pride and joy. And that was how I first met Private Bowen, although it was not until he reminded me of the fact, several weeks later, that I recalled I had done so. By which time a month or so had passed since our men first went over the top. Only to find that, that by and large, our week long artillery barrage had achieved precisely nothing. The German fortifications were more or less intact. So, as our heavily laden infantry began their advance at a slow walk across No-Man's Land, and through a maze of shell holes, the poor sods were cut to pieces by shelling and machine gun fire from the Hun. Those few who somehow managed to get through not only the wire but also the mud and then reach the enemy lines were quickly cut off with no chance of reinforcements getting through to them. The battlefield became a charnel house, choked with the dead of both sides, strewn with thousands of of rotting corpses. Yet, behind our lines, in the rear, the dusty roads were paradoxically alive with movement as more and more of our own troops made their way towards the trenches. Now, before I continue, not that your mother would approve of it, if you don't mind, Mr Foster, I think I will have one of your cigarettes after all".

"Father, they're ... French," stammered Simon who, in all the time that he had known him, had never once seen his father smoke.

"Well, yes, here in France, I supposed they would be".

Given what he had just recounted, Matthew's attempt at levity seemed ridiculously funny and they all laughed.

"May I?"

"Yes, of course. Here". Alec pulled out his crumpled packet of Gauloises. Waited while Matthew took one and then struck a match.

"Thank you".

Matthew inhaled deeply.

"Father, I didn't know that you ..."  
"I don't. In fact, the very last time I had a cigarette was the evening when your Uncle Tom came down to see me at Crawley House, the night before I married your mother. She and I had had ... a difference of opinion".

"About what?"

Matthew smiled; shook his head.

"It doesn't matter. Anyway, it was touch and go whether we would actually marry. And of course, if we hadn't then you and I wouldn't have had the pleasure of knowing each other".

"And ... has it been a pleasure?"  
"What do you think?" Matthew smiled again. "Even so, it was your Uncle Tom who saved the day. An honourable man, for sure! And apart from sharing several cigarettes, he drank most of my whisky too. But then, of course, after all, he's Irish".

This time it was Simon and Alec who laughed.

"Now, where was I?"  
"The dispatch rider ..."  
"The ... Ah, yes ..."

Matthew saw Simon and Alec exchange amused glances.

"And then?" prompted Simon.

"And then, at HQ we received a pair of most distinguished visitors ..."

"Both of them honourable men?" asked Alec with a grin.

"Perhaps," said Matthew equitably. "But, given your own politics, when I tell you who they were, I'll let you be the judge of that".

* * *

 **Old Stables, Skerries House, County Cork, Ireland, late summer 1949.**

As the truck swung into the stable yard. lurching this way and that over the uneven cobbles, from the window of the office, Emily saw the beams of the headlights cutting through the swirling mist, and immediately hurried outside, to stand by the door while the Bedford drew to a stop. Although down there on the beach in front of Derry she had assumed a devil may care attitude, if the truth be told she had not enjoyed her lonely walk back along the beach, nor the climb up the Gulls' Way to the top of the cliffs. And while at the time she had told herself that her walk back here to the stables had been done briskly in order to alert those up at the house as quickly as possible as to what had happened, although Emily would never admit it to anyone except herself, the drifting skeins of fog had distinctly unnerved her. This being so, it was understandable that now, on seeing Danny jumping down out of the cab and hurrying across the yard to meet her, she breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief.

* * *

With his arm about her shoulders, while he shepherded Emily over to the truck, Danny was at pains to assure her that everything that could be done for those on board the stricken vessel was in hand. Yes, the Harbour Master in Kinsale had been informed. Da had been on the telephone to him when they left. What would the Harbour Master do? Well, Danny supposed, it would be much as he had done the last time a ship ran aground off Skerries Point and what he had done the time before that: dispatch a tug to stand off from the cove to render any assistance that might be needed. Up at the house, Ma and Aunt Mary were preparing hot sweet tea and blankets. Claire and he were on their way down to the beach to see what, if anything, might be done from the shore. Claire? Yes, Claire. She was here in the truck too.

"Then, I'm coming with you!" exclaimed Emily.

"It'll be a bit of a squeeze for sure. Wouldn't yous prefer it, if yous went back up to the house and helped your mother and Ma?"  
"No, of course not!" said Emily promptly, having decided that it might be better if she delayed her return to the house for as long as possible. After all, when aroused, Mama was perfectly capable of being as probing and tenacious as a member of the Spanish Inquisition. "Not when Derry's down there on his own".

Danny smiled.

Ah! What it was to be young and in love, for sure!

* * *

That journey from the stables to the cliffs overlooking Skerries Cove proved to be a nightmare; the mist shrouded countryside both devoid of familiar landmarks and eerily silent. And while none of them said so, independently of each other, Danny, Claire, and Emily were all conscious of a slightly creepy feeling which thick fog often inspires.

Danny was a good driver but even he found himself having to drive much slower than he had anticipated, so as to avoid running into the rough stone walls lining the narrow road; the wan light of the headlamps serving to illuminate only those few yards directly ahead of the lumbering lorry. At one point, the fog seemed absolutely impenetrable, forming an opaque, dirty white barrier across the lane, Danny slamming his foot hard on the brakes and bringing the Bedford to a complete stop. In the circumstances, it was just as well that he had done so, for what they had all taken to be a thick scarf of swirling fog turned out to be a flock of sheep, the passage of the Bedford now resuming at a veritable crawl, as Danny manoeuvred the motor at a snail's pace through the bleating, jostling, wide eyed ruck of woolly animals.

A while later, they found themselves at the gate leading to the rutted track which led across fields, over as far as the towering cliffs encircling the cove.

"Let's hope we don't go too far and topple over the edge into the sea!" laughed Danny, trying to lighten the sombreness of the mood here within the cab. But while Claire and Emily knew he spoke only in jest, it was only all too obvious that hereabouts the fog was now thicker than ever.

* * *

 **Skerries Cove.**

Having left the truck a hundred yards or so back from the edge of the cliffs, going one behind the other, the three of them had cautiously descended the Gulls' Way down to the beach, in the foggy darkness retracing the same narrow path which Emily herself had taken a while earlier when she had climbed up to the stables to telephone the house with news of what had happened off Skerries Point.

Down here on the sands of the cove, as they made their way along the shore, the fog swirled eerily about them, salty, clammy, and cold. Save for the faint ebb and flow of the incoming tide, all was silent. Of Derry, there was no sign. And then, another distress rocket soared into the sky, the resulting starburst illuminating the whole of the cove in a sudden and brief blaze of brilliant white light.

But it was enough.

And it was Danny who saw it first.

The body of a young man lying face down on the sand at the water's edge.

No doubt a crewman from off the steamer.

But now, as they reached the body, Emily let out a piercing scream.

"It's Derry!"

* * *

 **British Fourth Army Headquarters, Château de Querrieu, Battle of the Somme, France, August 1916.**

It was only but a short while since both His Majesty the King and His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, along with their entourage, had departed; the King, who was staying at General Haig's château at Val Vion, having come here to the Château de Querrieu to award military decorations to two French generals - Joffre and Foch - as well as to confer with his own senior military staff, and thereafter, escorted by General Sir Henry Rawlinson, Commander-in-Chief of the British Fourth Army, having been to see for himself something of the ongoing offensive here on the Somme which had begun some five weeks earlier.

Privately, Matthew had little time for Rawlinson, having learned from some of his fellow officers that their C-in-C had refused to listen to any advice that ran contrary to his own rigidly held belief that however strong they might have been when built, the German fortifications on the Somme would have been completely destroyed by artillery fire, long before the British infantry began its advance. That this had not been so, that Rawlinson had been wrong, had been proven on that very first day when, advancing slowly across No-Man's Land, the British Fourth Army suffered nearly 60,000 casualties: dead, wounded, and missing.

And now, some five weeks later, the slaughter here on the Somme continued unabated.

"Captain Crawley, sir?"

On the steps of the imposing three storied, slate roofed, red brick, stone faced, shuttered building which, with its two storied flanking pavilions with their wrought iron balconies, formed the château, Matthew now paused; looked about him, seeking to ascertain just who it was who had hailed him.

* * *

 **Skerries House, County Cork, Ireland, late summer 1949.**

Despite all that had happened the previous night, the only casualty, in the aftermath of the SS. Siegfried running aground off Skerries Point, had been young Dermot himself, who. somehow, had sustained a blow to his head and which, had rendered him, albeit only briefly, temporarily unconscious.

After Emily had gone back up to the stables to raise the alarm, he had, said Dermot, stayed sitting there on the beach, keeping a sharp look out, in case any of the crew from off the steamer made their way ashore.

But none did so.

Thereafter, at some point, or so Dermot kept insisting, he had been hit over the head. He was beginning to come to when Emily and the others found him, before being carried up to the lorry on an improvised stretcher made out of blankets and a pair of oars from Dermot's hitherto secret hideaway in the cave beneath the cliffs.

* * *

"More like you tripped over a rusty length of anchor chain, for sure!" observed Danny, amused, his arms folded, lounging in the doorway of his brother's bedroom, watching, while Claire re-banged Derry's head.

"Jaysus! Danny, oi was sittin' there on my feckin' arse, for Christ's sake!"

"Dermot! Language!" remonstrated Sybil who, along with Tom, had appeared behind Danny in the doorway. Regardless of how it was that the injury to Dermot's head had occurred, Sybil realised that her intended talk with her younger son would now have to wait; the more so since Emily was here in Dermot's room, sitting beside him on the bed, holding his outstretched hand. Something which Dermot now announced that he found to be especially comforting; which startling pronouncement elicited yet another good natured guffaw of brotherly disbelief on the part of Danny.

* * *

 **County Cork, late summer 1949.**

Here in the beautiful, green, rolling Irish countryside of County Cork, it was still only but a little after ten o'clock in the morning.

With last night's fog at long last having melted away, the air was now dazzlingly clear, it was becoming very warm indeed, with every promise of it being a lovely day. Even so, earlier on this same morning, while the fog persisted, there had been a distinct chill in the air. Something upon which both Mary and Danny had remarked as after a hurried breakfast, arm in arm, aunt and nephew had walked companionably together down to the old stables, there to saddle up for their promised morning ride. Summer, Danny observed ruefully, was almost over; was indeed already on the wane.

Having saddled up their mounts for themselves something which, back at Downton, Mary would never have done, with Danny leading the way, each of them in good spirits, they clattered out of the stables, Mary's Irish nephew regaling his aunt with tales of his time spent on horseback while working for Colonel Blantyre out in far distant Madeira. While Danny considered himself to be not as gifted with the written word as was his father, he could be just as loquacious, as he now proved.

Explaining how it was that he himself had learned to ride and thereafter telling Aunt Mary of some of the journeys he had made on horseback, along narrow and precipitous paths, sheep tracks, and mule trails, up into the hills, across the central part of the island, over to the west, to the north, and to the east. Conjuring up for Mary as they ambled gently through the stone walled fields of County Cork, another world entirely. One of forests of palm, eucalyptus, oak, sweet chestnut, and pine, the forest floor carpeted with pink belladonna lilies and pine needles, the air fragrant with mimosa, alive with the sounds of singing birds and everywhere the noise of gushing streams of crystal clear water, of the roar of cascades. thundering, foaming, plunging their way downwards into pools and running along the man made _levadas._ Of isolated farmsteads and villages, of barking dogs and tolling church bells, and of stone built terraces upon which grew wheat, bananas, and sugar cane. Of wild moorlands and ferny glens, of steep sided ravines studded with foxgloves, hydrangeas, rhododendrons, and blue and white agapanthus. Of emerald green valleys, in springtime turned to gold with the bloom of both gorse and broom and sprinkled with apple blossom, And undulating grassy pastures broken only by the gilded and russet hues of volcanic rock. Of breath taking views compassed in whichever direction one looked by the wide expanse of the wild, boundless waters of the Atlantic Ocean.

"Do you miss it?" asked Mary. "You sound very much as if you do".

Danny now drew rein, then sat his horse. He nodded his head.

"An honest answer, Aunt Mary? Between ourselves and no further, for sure?"

Mary likewise nodded.

"Of course".

"Then, yes. There are moments when I do. Sometimes, remembering what I had there ..."

Danny fell silent.

Fell to remembering how it had been up there on what proved to be his last trip into the interior of the island. Was, in his mind's eye, seeing again Carmen as she had looked on that very last morning when he had left her and their three boys at the _quinta_ , their house up in hills above Monte, in order to ride close to Curral das Freiras.

Unsurprisingly, since he was cast in the very mould of his father, Danny always resented spending any time other than which was absolutely necessary away from both his wife and their three children. However, this journey, apart from being arduous, much as he wished it otherwise, was unavoidable, arising out of sheer necessity, occasioned by a severe tropical storm which had swept across the island from north to south. Bringing in its wake, thunder, lightning, torrential rain, high winds, and also a series of damaging mudslides, the storm had caused flooding, felled trees, swept away houses, blocked both tracks and roads with debris washed down from the hills. And it had been one of the mudslides which meant that repairs were necessary to be put in hand to the centuries old _levada_ which brought the Blantyre Estate much of its water, the stone channel now breached in several places by the ferocity of the storm, which had washed away not only the channel itself, but several of its culverts and sluices.

* * *

 **Curral das Freiras,** **Madeira, late October 1942.**

Here in the mountains, where the lowering clouds still hung low and a skein of damp grey mist shrouded the trees, where the few houses that there were clung like limpets to the steep sides of the valley, it was a sodden world. Having dismounted and tethered his horse to the shattered stump of a tree, Danny stood and looked about him. Behind, there was the waterfall, which, having ridden this way before, Danny knew at this time of the year, was often reduced to little more than a trickle. Now the water thundered over the lip of the cliff above him in one continuous roar, a constant, gushing, muddy torrent, cascading over the shattered remnants of the _levada_ and the stone terracing which had once supported it, before plunging down into the valley far below. Close at hand a dog barked and a cockerel crowed while from somewhere, much further down the valley, there came the tolling of a church bell. Danny sighed resignedly. From what he had seen so far up here, it was clear that the damage was much worse than he expected and would take several days to repair.

* * *

 **Funchal, Madeira, later that same afternoon.**

Down by the harbour, this afternoon made gay by the presence of a flotilla of brightly painted fishing boats riding gently at anchor, with the sound of the Atlantic waves crashing against the far side of the breakwater clearly audible, the shaded galleries of the recently built market were redolent with all manner of aromas: the smell of freshly baked bread, the salty tang of fish, the sweetness of freshly picked fruit, and the myriad scents of flowers cut that very same morning. At length, regretfully having had to leave the pleasant coolness of the market, encumbered by her various purchases, holding little Daniel tightly by the hand, when Carmen stepped out into the street, the bronze heat of the day hit her with all the force of a fiery furnace. Seeking whatever little shade there was to be had by keeping as close as possible to the walls of the houses and shops lining the narrow streets, they threaded their way slowly back through the town towards the railway station in the Rua do Pombal for the steep ride on the little rack railway, all the way up to Terreiro da Luta with its statue of the Holy Virgin, lying just above Monte.

* * *

 **Quinta das palmeiras, Monte, Madeira, later that same day.**

After they got off the train, Carmen and Daniel had stopped briefly in the shade of some palm trees where they stood and watched a group of young men and women, who in a swirl of colours of patterned waistcoats and striped skirts, were dancing, clapping and stamping their feet, all to the beat of pipe, tambourine, and drum. Now back here at the house, Carmen found her two youngest, along with Carlota, sitting outside in the courtyard beneath the jacaranda tree. While the girl disappeared inside the house to begin preparing the sweet potatoes and yams for their evening meal, taking the three boys with her, barefoot, Carmen went out into the garden down below the house. Here, seated on a bench in the shade beneath an over arching canopy of bougainvillea, with Rober sleeping in her arms, she watched as Daniel and Tomás played contentedly on the grass. The air smelt heavenly, rich with the scent of all manner of flowers, of wild lavender, of fennel, of pale blue hydrangeas, and of white Lily of the Nile, mixed with the fragrance of leaves and of loam. Married to a man she adored, with three delightful young boys, happy and contented with her lot, the horrors of the civil war in Spain an increasingly distant memory, Carmen found herself wondering, truly, if life could ever be any better than this.

* * *

Across the valley, close to where during the storm a bolt of lightning had struck the earth, the blasted, broken remnants of the pine tree still smouldered. All that was needed to fan the nascent embers into life was but the merest whisper of wind. Now, while far below, Funchal basked drowsily in the afternoon heat, here up in the pine clad hills above Monte, a faint breeze arose. Very soon the fiery embers began to flicker and at length burst into a burning spray of flame, almost as if the fire had sprung from the very bowels of the earth. In no time at all, the pine itself was ablaze; the fire driven on by the rising wind with the crackling tongues of flame soon setting light to the other trees close at hand, and before long a dense pall of smoke shrouded the hillside.

On the other side of the valley, behind the house, despite the recent rain, the forest was still tinder dry; indeed, had been so for weeks.

* * *

 **County Cork, Ireland, late summer 1949.**

The feelings which Danny himself had experienced when he rode through archway into the courtyard of the fire damaged _quinta_ and found that Carmen was dead, wisely, he now kept to himself, while Mary had the innate good sense not to press him further about his memories of his time spent on Madeira. From what Tom and Sybil had told Matthew and herself, it had been a very long time before Danny had been reconciled to the death of his wife. Sometimes, sleeping dogs were indeed best left to lie undisturbed.

"Aunt Mary?"

"Hm?"

"About Uncle Matthew ... Look, I know Ma told me not to ask, and I won't, not if it's so very awful .."

Mary smiled.

"Thank you. It isn't ... It's just ..."

"For what it's worth, I know Uncle Matthew's an honourable man, for sure. Da thinks so too and if Da says that, then it must be true, mustn't it?".

"Yes. I suppose it must".

* * *

Once they were out of sight of both the house and the stables, Mary and Danny had set their heels to the flanks of their mounts, confounding the fact that one rider was a grandmother and a great aunt several times over and the other a father to four small boys and with another child on the way, both Mary and Danny entering into the spirit of the ride and and taking several stone walls with consummate ease.

Thereafter, they took a circular route which brought them, eventually, to the ivy clad, bramble tangled, blackened shell of what had been Cullen Hall which had once belonged to the Anstruthers and which, like Skerries House, had been burnt out by the IRA back in January 1921, the ruins long since fast falling into complete decay. Here, Danny and Mary each drew rein on their mounts, the chestnut and the bay respectively, slowing from a gallop, to a canter, then to a trot, finally bringing the two horses to a stop but a short distance away from the grim shell of the house. Not that she said so, but Mary found herself once again recalling to mind _Gone With The Wind_ , probably on account of the fact that she had re-read the novel scarce a year ago, now remembering Scarlett's vivid description of what she found at Twelve Oaks after the damned Yankees had swept through Georgia, looting and burning:

 _There towered the twelve oaks, as they had stood since Indian days, but with their leaves brown from fire and the branches burned and scorched. Within their circle lay the ruins of John Wilkes' house, the charred remains of that once stately home which had crowned the hill in white-columned dignity. The deep pit which had been the cellar, the blackened field-stone foundations and two mighty chimneys marked the site. One long column, half-burned, had fallen across the lawn, crushing the cape jessamine bushes_.

At Cullen Hall, save for a singular lack of cape jessamine, the scene was somewhat similar; the towering, smokeless chimneys and the burned out shell of a once gracious house that would never again accord a welcome within its still fire blackened walls.

Slipping lithely down from his own mount, Danny crossed over to where his aunt yet sat her horse, held up his arms, and helped Mary to dismount. Saw her yawn.

"Are yous tired?"

Mary smiled.

"No, not really. It's all this fresh air!"

"Aye, 'tis grand, for sure!"

If not up with the lark, both of them had risen early which, after the alarums and excursions of the previous evening, was somewhat surprising. After all, what with the shipwreck, then Dermot being found injured down there on the beach and brought back up to the house on a makeshift stretcher, the adults in the family had all gone to bed very late and it was unlikely that any of them had managed much by way of sleep.

Standing on the greensward, Mary continued to look about her and realised that what she saw now would have been the fate of Skerries House, as indeed it had been before, with Tom and Sybil's perseverance, the house had arisen, phoenix like, from the coldness of its ashes.

Danny sensed his aunt's contemplative mood. Looking about him, he smiled.

"A grand place this must have been once, for sure".

"What an utter bloody waste," said Mary softly.

"For sure. But Da says what happened here, and elsewhere too, was the price that had to be paid".

"For what?"  
"For our freedom".  
"And do you believe him?"

Danny nodded.

"That those who did this were fighting for what they believed in. Freedom for Ireland".

"All honourable men," said Mary, softly sardonic.

"Perhaps," said Danny evenly.

* * *

As they ambled slowly away from the bleak ruins of Cullen Hall, Danny now suggested that, before they returned to Skerries, with the fog having lifted, they canter over to the cove and take a look at what was being done to refloat the tramp steamer.

A short while later, as Danny and Mary drew near to the cliffs, from the ragged flock of wheeling, soaring wings which greeted them, it was only all too obvious that the seabirds nesting high on the rocky ledges, whitened by their droppings, were in a torrid ferment: the vociferous screaming of the razorbills, kittiwakes, guillemots, shags, and black backed gulls rising in a screeching, raucous seeming welcome of the two riders.

And then, amid the cries of the birds, both aunt and nephew heard something else: a yell and which came from somewhere just beyond the edge of the cliff. Quickly dismounting, hurriedly tossing the reins of his horse to his aunt, Danny sprinted towards the top of the cliff, throwing himself down on his belly and crawling the last few yards across the short turf right to the very edge. There, looking over, he found himself gazing down into the startled, upturned, white face of a young man with a pair of binoculars slung around his neck.

"Am I glad to see you!" The man smiled, delightedly so, and with obvious relief.

An Englishman, by the sound of him, thought Danny.

"How do yous come to be down ..." he began.

"I feel a bit of a fool. Entirely my own fault, old chap. I was out here having a look at the wreck". The young man gesticulated slowly in the direction of the tramp steamer, now ringed about by a shoal of fishing boats and a tug, all of them out of Kinsale. "My cap ... the wind up here ..." He pointed towards where, several feet down on another ledge, there lay a man's tweed cap. "I thought I could retrieve it ... I lost my footing, and now I find myself unable to move".

As if to reinforce the precariousness of the man's present position, marooned where he was on a crumbling, narrow, rocky ledge, a shower of dirt and loose stones now cascaded downwards onto the beach below.

Memory began to stir.

And then, all of a sudden, Danny recalled just where it was that he had seen the young man before.

It had been just the other day, down there on the quayside in Kinsale, stepping from off the deck of a white hulled yacht with the vessel itself having drawn an admiring crowd.

 **Author's Note:**

During the Battle of the Somme, the date on which the British infantry began to advance - 1st July 1916 - proved to be, in terms of casualties, the worst day in the history of the British Army, with some 57,470 accounted dead, wounded, or missing. Most of these casualties occurred in General Rawlinson's own sector, directly as a result of him having refused to listen to good advice about the strength of the German fortifications and to accept the very real possibility that the British artillery barrage had failed to neutralise them. Yet, despite the appalling level of casualties, Rawlinson remained in post. To have removed him would have been to admit that the Somme offensive had been incompetently planned and bungled in its execution, which neither Field Marshal Sir Douglas Haig, nor the British government, was prepared to do.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Revelations

 **Villa Artemis, above Menton, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.**

Not of course that it happened very often but when it did, whether in a former life as a solicitor in practise across the Pennines in rain-soaked Manchester or thereafter here in the rolling countryside of the West Riding of Yorkshire as earl of Grantham, master of the Downton Abbey estate and all he surveyed - at least until the National Trust had lifted much of that increasingly heavy burden from off his stalwart shoulders - Matthew Crawley had the good grace to know when he was beaten.

And this was one of those exceedingly rare occasions.

"Very well then, my dear. But only if you really are absolutely certain ... that this is indeed what you want to do".

From her _chaise longue_ , Alice weakly nodded her assent.

" _Je suis en effet_ ".

"Of course it will take me a little while ... I mean a day or so ... perhaps even two ... in order to go through all of the bequests and so forth ... to ensure that everything is in order, is ... exactly as you wish it to be".

"Take all the time you need, _mon chéri_. _Et une chose de plus_. _Comme nous en avons_ _discuté l'autre jour_ ... _je veux que tu ajoutes ça, comme un_ _codicille_ ".

In her left hand Alice held out to him a piece of paper, which Matthew now took from her. It took him a moment or two to digest its contents. Clearly completely taken aback by the wording of the codicil, Matthew ran his fingers through his hair.

"My God! When I told you about ... I never expected this ..."  
Alice raised an enquiring brow.

"Non?" She smiled.

"Non". Matthew likewise smiled. "But then, knowing you as well as I do, perhaps I should have".

Alice smiled.

"And _mon chéri,_ there is one thing more. I should very much like it if you would ..."

* * *

 **Rua da Judiaria, Lisbon, Portugal, late summer 1949.**

Here on the ancient Rua da Judiaria within the Abastado's house, the air tonight redolent with the delicious smell of freshly baked bread and a host of other savoury aromas, also as well there were the sounds of constant chatter, of laughter, and of the flurry of preparation for tonight's festive meal. But at the rear of the building, out in the slowly darkening courtyard, save for the soft tinkling of water as it trilled gently down into the circular pool from out of the mouths of the two, centuries old, marble dolphins, their tails entwined ever since they were sculpted, the silence remained unbroken. Until that was, Uncle Jacob decided that now was the moment to make known his own views on the subject which had arisen earlier upon the arrival here of Edith's letter, delivered here in the midst of all the preparations for this week's Shabbat which were, as a result of the furore it had provoked, still incomplete.

"So, tell me this. Just how is it that you know this boy?" Clearly annoyed, Uncle Jacob held out the letter he had received, postmarked from Nantes, in distant France. "Why haven't you spoken to us of him before?" asked Hannah's uncle, obviously disapproving, not to say outraged, that something had been taking place here beneath his own roof, under his very nose, and of which, until but a short while earlier this evening, he had been entirely ignorant.

"We met at the Zhdanov's in Biarritz," explained Hannah quietly. By nature softly spoken, given all of the circumstances, her voice was all but inaudible.

Uncle Jacob now turned his attention to Stefan.

"Did you know anything about this?" Slowly, young Stefan shook his head.

"No, I ... Well, not exactly, Uncle Jacob, no". He looked down at the ground.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Tatty, please, it's not Stefan's fault. Nor, for that matter, is it Hannah's".

Their cousin Gideon smiled, he hoped encouragingly, first at Hannah and then at Stefan. Now nodded his agreement.

"Really?" Clearly his father did not believe what his niece had just told him.

"Tatty, Hannah's telling you the truth. You know who she means. Dima's people. Over there in Biarritz ..."

"And do you think that makes this acceptable? To have behaved so deceitfully?"

"I didn't mean ..."

"And what would your dear parents have said? Would they have approved of this? Any of it?"

"Uncle Jacob, please!" Hannah's eyes glistened with tears.

"You will have no further contact with this boy. Is that clearly understood?"

Hannah nodded. A moment later, weeping bitter tears, she had fled the courtyard whereupon Stefan turned quickly on his heel and ran after his sister.

"Tatty, how could you have been so ..." began Gideon.  
"I know, I know. It was unforgiveable of me ... I shouldn't have said ..."

A moment later, Jacob's wife Esther, a plump, kindly soul, her face aglow, flushed from the heat of the kitchen, bustled self importantly out into the courtyard.

"Just what on earth has been going on out here?"  
"Hannah's rather upset," explained Gideon, lamely.

"So I can see ... " Then, when neither Jacob nor for that matter Gideon made to say anything further on the matter, realising that, at least for the present, she would get no sense from either her husband or her eldest son, raising her flour covered hands, shaking her head in disbelief, Esther hurried back inside the house to go immediately in search of both Hannah and her brother.

Glancing at the retreating form of his wife, Jacob sighed; set the letter he still held aside, sat down heavily on the edge of the circular pool.

"And besides next year, God willing ... " He raised his head; nodded towards the kitchen door through which Hannah had not long since fled.

"Next year in Jerusalem?" offered Gideon with a rueful smile.

His father nodded.

"Or ... some such place".

* * *

 **British Fourth Army Headquarters, Château de Querrieu, Battle of the Somme, France, August 1916.**

From where he had been standing, over beside one of the large artillery pieces marshalled on what, in better times, before the war, had been the front lawns of the château, at the double, a soldier, a private, now made his way across the pristine gravel of the forecourt, while for his part, Matthew remained exactly where he was. Now remembered, and too late, that in the letter he had posted to Mary earlier this same morning, he had forgotten to thank her for the pair of bed socks which she had sent him.

* * *

 **Villa Artemis, above Menton, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.**

"Really? Are you quite sure?" This time Alice had indeed managed to surprise Matthew with what it was she had now asked of him.  
" _Oui_ ".

"When?"  
" _N_ _'importe quand_. That ... I leave to you".

* * *

 **Bar Nicolas, St. Paul de Vence, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.**

"Mama knitted you a pair of socks?" Simon made no attempt to hide his absolute incredulity. For him, if not for Alec, and in more ways than one, this evening was proving to be a memorable occasion; first of all seeing his own father smoke a cigarette and now learning that Mama knew how to knit.

"Well, no. At least, not exactly". Matthew smiled. He took another sip of red wine. "You know this really is very good indeed". Whereupon, Alec promptly topped up Matthew's glass.

"Then, if not Mama, who ..." began Simon.

"It was actually your great grandmother, Granny Violet, who knitted that particular pair of socks for me".  
"Really?" Simon sounded equally incredulous. From what he had heard tell of Granny Violet, it seemed no more probable that she would have knitted his father a pair of bed socks than would have Mama. Even Alec couldn't contain his disbelief. From what Simon had told him, his friend's great grandmother had only been slightly less imperious than Catherine the Great.

"The Dowager Countess? I'll go to the foot of our stairs!" exclaimed Alec.

Matthew grinned.

"You might very well do so. Yes. The very same. Don't you two be so disbelieving ..."  
"Mea culpa!" Simon smiled. "But all the same, father, Granny Violet, knitting you a pair of socks!"

"My boy, it may surprise you to learn this but, a very long time ago now, your Uncle Tom once told me that Granny Violet had admitted to being _a woman of many parts_. Something that, when, eventually, I myself became much better acquainted with her, I whole heartedly concurred".

* * *

 **British Fourth Army Headquarters, Château de Querrieu, Battle of the Somme, France, August 1916.**

The private drew level with him, came to attention and then quickly saluted. Matthew promptly returned the salute.

"At ease, private. Yes?"

"Sorry to trouble you sir ..."  
"Do I know you?"  
"No sir ... not exactly. I saw you a couple of weeks ago ... when I brought a message up the line".

"Really?" Matthew had a very good memory both for places and for people. But this time, it failed him. Spectacularly so. Now, as Matthew struggled mentally to try and place the man, sensing his obvious confusion, the other took it upon himself to explain matters somewhat further.

"Private Bowen, sir. Dispatch rider. I was on the Triumph".

The image of a mud splattered motorcycle and its equally besmirched, uniformed rider, the mechanised form of a carrier pigeon, now hove into Matthew's mind.

"Ah, yes, of course. Now I remember you. So, just what is it you want of me?"  
"Your batman, sir. Private Mason ..."

"Private Mason? What about him?"

It was at this precise moment that the main door of the château swung open and a couple of Matthew's fellow officers came out onto the front steps. Despite himself, Matthew's lower lip curled. He couldn't abide either of them. Or their ilk. Had no time for their pompous conceit. The air of oh-so condescending superiority which they exuded; assumed even to those of the same rank as themselves. Of course, the purchasing of commissions in the British Army was long since a thing of the distant past, but on more than one occasion Matthew had found himself wondering how it was that such idiots ever came to hold the rank which they did. Somebody's son and heir? Matthew found himself remembering something Sybil had told him, about the family chauffeur, the Irishman, Branson. That because of what he had seen over there in Ireland he held an extremely low opinion of the calibre of officers serving in the British army. Had apparently said something to Sybil about _donkeys_ ... _lions led by donkeys._ that was it! Good God, thought Matthew, if I carry on thinking like this, I'll find myself being broken to the ranks!

Both officers nodded curtly at Matthew who remembered them as also being of the fawning _coterie_ who, before the advance on the Somme had begun, had wholeheartedly supported Rawlinson's woefully inadequate assessment of the military situation: that, unquestionably, the week long artillery barrage would have done its work and done it well. That the German defences, however deep, however extensive, however formidable, would have been blown to smithereens.

The two officers looked askance at the private standing stock still before Matthew on the neatly raked gravel of the forecourt, before quietly going on their way, but not before they had exchanged a couple of sniggers and then a low aside, meant for their ears and their ears alone.

"I'm not explaining myself very well, am I sir?" asked Bowen.  
"No, you're not," Matthew said irritably and rather more sharply than he had intended.

This whole situation was beginning to prove distinctly embarrassing. That being so, on his part at least, Matthew now had every intention of ending this wholly unexpected and unsolicited conversation. Continued to watch as the two officers made their way over to a waiting staff car. But, with the two men having climbed into the motor and been driven away, seeing just how crestfallen the private looked, Matthew immediately thought better of it. There was something about the young man ... something which piqued not only Matthew's curiosity, but also his innate compassion. No-one was therefore more surprised than Matthew himself when he heard himself say: "What, about Private Mason?"

* * *

 **St. Paul de Vence, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.**

In the warmth of the summer's evening, just outside the old gate of the town, here beneath the shade of an umbrella pine, sitting between a couple of his friends, all three of them seated on a bench disinterestedly watching what had proved to be a desultory game of _boules_ , now clearly annoyed that what he had recounted to them was not being believed, that he was becoming a figure of fun, old Maysonet was rapidly losing patience with both Pascal and Toussaint.

 _"Et je vous dis que c'était ca!"_

 _"Ne sois pas si ridicule!"_

 _"Je ne suis pas! C'est **bien** ce que je voyais!"_

And with this angry pronouncement, Maysonet rose to his feet and, in a high dudgeon, stomped off crossly towards the gate leading to the Rue Grande.

* * *

 **Blakeney Hall, Norfolk, England, 11th November 1919.**

Whatever the weather, here at Blakeney, the view from the study window which looked out over the bleak expanse of the salt marshes, northwards towards the sea, was depressing enough but in this particular season, the fag end of the year, the prospect appeared more desolate than ever. He recalled his old nanny once telling him that from the coast there was no further landfall to be made until one reached the North Pole. A slight exaggeration no doubt but here, on the north coast of Norfolk, in winter, when the wind blew southwards all the way from the Arctic, he could well imagine it to be true enough.

Raising his head, he now glanced briefly at the clock on the mantle piece which showed that it was a quarter to eleven. Time enough but, nonetheless, he should make a start on completing what little there still remained to be done.

* * *

 **Chapelle du Saint-Esprit,** **Battle of the Somme, France, August 1916.**

Matthew glanced at his wristwatch; in the fading evening light it showed it was now just after a quarter to nine. Quite why he had agreed to this meeting, here in this isolated place, a quiet, country chapel, standing well off the road in a small grove of trees, a mile or more from the Château de Querrieu, he couldn't say. He had spent the last ten minutes or so, wandering around the inside of the chapel. While it was undoubtedly a magnificent example of fifteenth century architecture, the interior, lit only by a few pinpricks of light from several votive candles, reeked of incense which, along with the plethora of painted statues, quite offended against Matthew's decidedly Protestant sensibilities. But if Bowen wasn't here in the next few minutes, make no bones about it, Matthew had decided that he would begin walking back along the road to British Army Headquarters.

Then, just as the appointed hour slipped by, standing beneath the arch of the west door of the chapel, he heard it. Faintly at first, then growing louder all the while; the throaty roar of a motorbike. Now, as the machine rounded a bend in the lane, saw too its headlight and, just behind it, the shadowy, hunched form of its solitary rider, crouched down low over the handlebars of the fast approaching motorcycle.

* * *

 **Langthorpe Hall, Yorkshire, England, June 1926.**

First of all Tom, and then Matthew, had offered to drive, but, in the end, it had fallen to Farrar to chauffeur the Bransons and the Crawleys over to Langthorpe Hall to attend the evening's festivities. On reflection, it was probably just as well that he had for, as Matthew had observed, with Tom seated behind the steering wheel of the green 6½ litre Bentley, if he ran true to form and maintained his usual lacklustre turn of speed, like as not they would arrive at Langthorpe well after the house had been shut up and everyone else had gone to bed. Somewhat miffed, Tom had countered by pointing out that given Matthew's love of speed, there was every likelihood of them not arriving at all. And while, following the opening of the _Tom Branson Memorial Ward_ at the Cottage Hospital in Downton the facilities there were much improved from what they had once been, Tom said he would very much prefer not ending up occupying one of the twelve new beds.

"Not even with darling Sybil in attendance to mop your fevered brow?" Matthew had asked with a grin.

"Absolutely not. You've never had the misfortune to experience the way Sybil treats her patients: I have. Matthew, old chum, if it was a choice between struggling into work with bubonic plague or staying in bed in Idrone Terrace and being cared for by Sybil, I'd opt for work, for sure! Do you know, the last time I was ill enough to stay home, she made me ... Tell yous later". Out of the corner of his eye, now catching sight of their two elegantly dressed wives descending the Main Staircase of Downton Abbey, Tom now quickly changed the subject.

"Jaysus, darlin', you look beautiful, for sure" he simpered.

"Oh, do you really like it?" Sybil asked, pirouetting on the bottom most step of the Main Staircase, revelling in her husband's earnest approval. She was wearing a beaded sapphire blue lace over champagne satin evening gown which served to accentuate every part of her shapely female form

Unfortunately, in his haste to likewise compliment Mary, Matthew now managed to say exactly the wrong thing.

"Darling, you look utterly divine". Mary purred her delight. "Worth every penny".

Scarcely were the words out of his mouth when Matthew realised that he had blundered; saw Mary's eyes narrow. The cost of her Handley-Seymour gown, a lovely creation, in stunning burgundy ribbon embroidered tulle, had been a bitter bone of contention between husband and wife.

* * *

 **Chapelle du Saint-Esprit,** **Battle of the Somme, France, August 1916.**

The motorbike drew to a stand beside the gate of the chapel. The rider set both of his booted feet firmly on the muddy ground and pushed up his goggles. Bowen nodded at Matthew and then smiled.

"Thank you for coming, sir. I wasn't at all sure that you would".  
"I'm not at all sure that I should have".

"Don't worry, sir. It's not what you think".  
"And just what do I think?" asked Matthew.

Bowen smiled.

"Please, sir, just let me try and explain. Private Mason said you were a kind gentleman, sir".  
"Be that as it may, I'll give you ten minutes, and not a moment longer".

Bowen nodded.

"Fair enough". He slipped nimbly from off of his machine and wheeled it quickly out of sight behind the stone wall encircling the chapel.

"So ..."

"If you don't mind following me, sir?"

It was clearly a question.

And Matthew knew that then and there he could have refused to do as he had now been asked.

That he could have shaken his head.

That he could have turned on his heel, and simply walked away.

But, he did neither of these things.

Later, he would wish that he had.

Instead, he simply nodded and, wonderingly, fell in behind Bowen as the other now walked up the narrow cobbled path towards the door of the chapel beneath the arch of which Matthew himself had been standing but a few minutes earlier.

* * *

 **Bar Nicolas, St. Paul de Vence, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.**

"And so just what did you think? asked Alec.

"Truthfully?"  
Alec nodded.

"To be honest, at the time, my own thoughts were in a whirl. But, nothing that remotely does me any credit, I can assure you of that. Nor, anything that prepared me in the slightest for what it was that Bowen had to tell me".

"Which was?" asked Simon.

* * *

 **Chapelle du Saint-Esprit,** **Battle of the Somme, France, August 1916.**

They were seated beside each other in a couple of ornately carved wooden choir stalls, close to the altar.

"Now what is it that you could not possibly say to me back there at Headquarters?"

"Do you recall, sir, when you visited Blakeney Hall?"

The unexpected nature of the question took Matthew completely by surprise.

"What the devil ... Why, yes," he stammered, unable to see what a long gone, all but forgotten house party held at Blakeney Hall over in Norfolk the year before before the war began could possibly have to do with whatever it was that Bowen now wanted to discuss.

Blakeney Hall ...

As Matthew recalled it, he had been invited there in the summer of 1913, as the prospective heir to the Downton Abbey Estate, in the company of both Robert and Cora. Now, if he remembered a right, at the time both Mary and Edith had been up in town, staying with their aunt, Lady Rosamund Painswick. Sybil had been ... indisposed. Although, Matthew held a private notion that, with the rest of the family conveniently away and at some distance from Downton, Sybil had feigned illness in order so as to be better able to pursue her own political interests of which Robert decidedly disapproved. That this was indeed the case had been reinforced by something which Matthew's own mother had told him when he returned home to Crawley House from Norfolk. That, in almost in a re-run of what had happened at the count, Sybil had been seen in Ripon ... handing out political leaflets, in the company of Branson. But even if this were true, Matthew never heard the matter spoken of again. So, maybe it had all been a misunderstanding. Either that or else nothing more than idle tittle tattle, emanating from someone in the Servants' Hall up at the abbey, like as not Miss O'Brien, and which somehow, probably through Molesley, had found its way into the ears of the cook at Crawley House, and thereafter so to his mother. But whatever the truth of it, Matthew never mentioned it to anyone; least of all to Sybil herself.

And now, as he considered things further, Matthew remembered something else.

At the time of the visit of the Crawleys to Blakeney Hall, William had been in attendance, serving as Robert's valet. Recalled too that Barrow, or Thomas as he was then known, being at the time but First Footman, considered it to have been nothing short of a personal affront that, as he saw it, he had been passed over. Had been most annoyed and, said Robert, had complained bitterly to Carson. Not that it had done Thomas any good. None whatsoever. Carson had been adamant and in no mood to brook opposition to what had already been agreed. William would attend on His Lordship over in Norfolk and there was an end of it.

"... and which was where I met Mr. Mason".

"What ...?" Matthew realised that he had been only half listening to what it was Bowen had been saying.

"Yes, sir. When you came to stay at Blakeney. That was I how I met your Mr. Mason. We ... rubbed along quite well. After you left, I became valet to Mr. James".

"Mr. James?"

"The Honourable James Alfred Seymour, second son of the Earl of Bath. He's a proper gentleman, is Mr. James".

"I"m sure he is. But just how does any of this concern me?"

"A year or so after your visit, when war was declared, like his older brother, Mr. Eustace - he's out in Mes ... Me so ..."

"Mesopotamia," offered Matthew helpfully.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Yes, that were it. As a captain with the Royal Norfolks. Well, Mr. James ... he joined up too, as a lieutenant in the Norfolks, and was posted over here ... to France. I joined at the same time. Came with him I did, as his batman. Like Mr. Mason is to you, sir".

Matthew nodded.

"Yes. The Norfolks ... let me see ... Their 8th Battalion was in the thick of it at Albert, I believe?"

"Yes sir. And took a real pasting we did too".

"But you came through it?"

"Yes sir. And without so much as a scratch".

"And your Mr. James?"

"Him too, sir, but then ..."

"But then what?"

"Well, it's his nerves, sir. What they calls shell shock. Shipped James out, they did. Just last week. Back to hospital in Blighty. To Prince Edward's, near Hunstanton".

It was that inadvertent and unexpected use by Bowen, of Seymour's Christian name, that put Matthew on his guard.

"I see". Matthew shifted painfully on the hard wooden seat of the stall. He was beginning to suffer seriously with cramp in his left leg.

Of course, he knew of several such cases of men suffering from was now being called "shell shock", although what actually it was that caused the complaint seemed not to be fully understood. Men of all ranks suddenly reduced to nervous wrecks; their teeth chattering constantly, shaking uncontrollably, screaming, raving, unable to sleep, and when they did prone to appalling nightmares. Some said the problem was caused by them having been too close to a shell when it had exploded. While not a medical man, Matthew was not so sure. Not everyone who had the misfortune to be close to an exploding shell became like the poor unfortunates he had seen and who had been diagnosed as suffering from this mysterious illness, if indeed that was what it was. Had heard tell that some MO's believed the only effective "cure" was for those with this complaint to be sent home, away from the fighting. Which, evidently what was had happened to Lieutenant Seymour, and indeed to several other officers whom Matthew had known personally. He knew too that the army was much less sympathetic towards NCO's said to be suffering from shell shock. That senior officers took the view that such men were malingerers; were in fact cowards. Who should be dealt with ... harshly, as an example to others.

"Only ... only that weren't the real reason why James was sent home ..."

 _James_. There it was again.

"Why then?"

"He told me why it was. James and I ... we have an understanding".  
"An understanding? About what?"

But Bowen got no further with his tale, for it was at that precise moment that at the far end of the chapel, the west door swung wide open; slammed back hard against the wall.

* * *

 **Bar Nicolas, St. Paul de Vence, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.**

Matthew saw Simon and Alec exchange glances.

"An understanding?" echoed Simon. "What kind of understanding?"  
"Can't either of you two guess?" asked Matthew softly.

* * *

 **Langthorpe Hall, Yorkshire, England, June 1926.**

A warm summer's evening, and the full length windows to the ground floor ballroom of Langthorpe Hall, the ancestral home of the Braithwaite family had been thrown wide open to admit the mild night air.

Much as the Crawleys had lived at Downton Abbey for some four centuries, so too the Braithwaites of Langthorpe had been resident here in the West Riding of Yorkshire since the mid fifteenth century. The present hall, the third on the site, had been built in the eighteenth century, a beautiful, elegant, sash-windowed, Georgian house of mellow red brick with ashlar chimney stacks and quoins, nestling beneath a slate roof and topped with an elegant cupola; possessed of commanding views of the surrounding countryside, with balustraded terraces and manicured lawns sweeping down to the banks of the River Ure. In all an estate of some fifteen thousand acres.

With Robert indisposed and Cora refusing to leave his side, it was here, on a beautiful June evening, some ten miles east of Downton, that Matthew and Mary along with Tom and Sybil found themselves representing the earl and countess of Grantham, attending the ball thrown to celebrate the marriage of the Honourable Algernon Robert - "Algy" - aged twenty five years, the second son of Lord and Lady Braithwaite.

Of the same generation as the three Crawley girls, here the similarity between them and the three Braithwaite boys ended. Captain Charles Braithwaite M.C. - the medal had been awarded posthumously - Algy's elder brother, who had been not only the earl of Grantham's godson but also in Robert's opinion "the best of all of them", had suffered the singular misfortune to encounter, and at very close quarters, a German _whizz bang_ at Ypres, on the Western Front back in July 1917. And the result of poor Charles being quite literally blown to pieces was that Algy was now heir to the family estate; not that he took any interest in the running of it. Indeed, these days, he came home as little as possible so as to avoid the constant, lengthy and repetitive parental sermons on doing his duty, settling down and taking his responsibilities seriously. In fact, all that mattered to Algy was that the Langthorpe estate continued to provide him with sufficient means to indulge his twin passions: fast motors and fast women and not necessarily in that particular order.

For several years now, flying visits back up to Yorkshire had become the definite order of the day, with Algy choosing to spend most of his time up in London but, even around Ripon, in the remote fastness of the West Riding, rumours of his dissolute conduct, centring on the Kit Kat Club in the West End, were rife. A favourite haunt of the smart set and said to number some thirty or so sons of the nobility among its members, the Kit Kat Club played host to an eclectic mix of the rich, the aristocratic, the famous and the bohemian with drink, drug-taking and promiscuity being the norm.

Young Algy's membership of the Kit Kat Club apart, his attitude to life in general and to all its many and varied responsibilities was best summed up in the insouciant reply he had given to an absent-minded, elderly relative who, finding Charles apparently unaccountably missing from a family dinner party in December 1920, had asked Algy in all innocence where his eldest brother was and how he was faring.

" _Rather difficult to say, old chap. Haven't seen Charlie in ages, don't you know. Last I heard, he was somewhere in France. In fact, all over the place, or so I've been led to believe"._

Apart from the fact that Ypres lay in Belgium and not France, given the fact that after Charles was killed, understandably, given the circumstances, his body was never found, Algy's riposte was admittedly an accurate reflection of how matters then stood. It was also both callous and insensitive; both his parents were standing close by and within open earshot of what their younger son was saying.

Algy's younger brother Edward Henry - "Eddie" - was the third of the Braithwaite boys. Slightly more personable than Algy, having failed to complete his degree, Eddie had recently left Oxford, to pursue a career in journalism, although from what Tom had seen of him and his constant chum "Floppy", if Eddie Braithwaite was at all serious about becoming a journalist, which Tom doubted, then he would have to apply himself to the task. And, this evening, on their way over to Langthorpe Hall, seated in the back of the Bentley, Tom observed pithily that it was his considered opinion that if ever there was one single reason for the wholesale elimination of the English aristocracy, then look no further than Algy and Eddie Braithwaite; dim as a Toc H lamp the pair of them.

Of course, Tom had very good cause to remember Algy.

The previous year, Tom and Sybil had brought the children over from Dublin so as to be with "Grandpapa" on his birthday. With the children fast asleep upstairs in the Night Nursery, downstairs in the Drawing Room the evening's festivities were in full swing when Algy, who was rumoured to have links to the British Fascist Party, as did many others of his ilk, once again let his mouth run away with him. Clearly rather worse for drink, in front of everybody he had loudly berated Tom, accusing him of being a Communist agitator in the pay of Moscow. When Tom had denied this, stood his ground, Algy, a drinking crony of Larry Grey, had tried another tack and, with Tom swimming in and out of focus before his eyes, Algy had repeatedly jabbed the Irishman's right shoulder with his forefinger ...

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, summer 1925.**

"Wait... wait a minute..." Algy slurred. " I know you. You're... you're that grub ... grubby little chau ... chauffeur chappy. Larry told me all about you. Do be a good sport and bring the motor round, old boy".

Matthew, Mary, and Sybil were standing close by and thus privy to what Algy had said. Fearing the worst, all of them held their collective breaths, waiting for Tom to give full rein to the famous Branson temper. Not that they need have worried. For, just as in the intervening years Robert had come to appreciate and value his Irish son-in-law, these days Tom admired and greatly respected his aristocratic, English father-in-law. This being so, he had no intention whatsoever of ruining Robert's birthday and it was now that the natural dignity which was inherent in Tom prevailed.

Well, almost.

Taking advantage of the fact that a nearby pillar more or less shielded the two of them both from view, grabbing hold of Algy by his shoulders, Tom slammed him hard up against the wall while above their heads a large painting in a heavy gilt frame, a picture of one of Robert's forbears depicted on horseback at the battle of Waterloo, wobbled ominously.

"You're feckin' drunk, so I won't even dignify your last remark with a reply," hissed Tom. "What I will say is that you are a guest in the house of my father-in-law, the earl of Grantham. I suggest you remember that and start behaving accordingly. Understood?"

Without any warning Tom released his grip on the inebriated Algy who, the instant he was deprived of the Irishman's support, now slithered to the floor where he lay in a heap, blinking up at his assailant. No-one had ever spoken to him like that before, let alone in public. For a minute he said nothing. Then, as Tom stepped back, clutching hold of a side table, Algy pulled himself to his feet. Now gave his erstwhile opponent an insolent smile; laughed a harsh laugh.

"Well, if we can't stop the bloody revolution, let's have some fun instead!" Algy made to grab another glass of champagne from off the silver salver held by Jimmy but in that same instant, as if from out of nowhere, a hand closed hard around his limp wrist.

"Oh, no you don't! You've had quite enough already!" This from Matthew who deftly snatched the brimming glass from out of a startled Algy's grasp before replacing it carefully back on Jimmy's tray.

"I say, steady on!" Algy staggered and almost cannoned into Jimmy. The tray of glasses rattled noisily. Algy seemed not to have heard what Matthew had said as once more he tried to take a glass from off the tray.

"You heard me. I said no more," repeated Matthew, his voice taking on an unaccustomed harshness.

"Have it your own way, old bean!" sneered Algy. None too steadily, he sauntered off into the crowded Drawing Room, swallowed up by the milling throng of guests come to toast the health of Robert Crawley, fifth earl of Grantham.

Tom shook his head in disbelief at the drunken lout's retreating form.

"When we were his age, were we ever like that ?"

"I'd like to think not," said Matthew ruefully.

"Oh, knowing you two, I expect you had your moments!" exclaimed Mary, all four of them joining in the laughter which followed her pithy pronouncement.

* * *

 **Langthorpe Hall, Yorkshire, England, June 1926.**

More recently, Algy's louche life had seemed to revolved around a succession of country house parties, at one of which, down in Surrey he had met his fiancée who turned out to be none other than the dim-witted, flat chested, vacuous Millie Anstruther, now residing back in England, at her parents' home close to Alcester in Warwickshire, whose family home in Ireland, Cullen Hall in County Cork, had, until it was burned out by the IRA, bordered the Skerries estate. Thinking back to what she could remember of her one and only meeting with the dim-witted Millie, Sybil had to concede that Millie and Algy Braithwaite were extremely well suited.

* * *

 **Bar Nicolas, St. Paul de Vence, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.**

"So what ..."

"... became of Bowen? Arrested by the Military Police, on a charge of cowardice. There were witnesses of course, each supporting what the others had to tell, but I have no doubt that their testimionies were not worth the paper they were written on. Among them those of the two officers I mentioned earlier. All, I believe, to help cover up the exact nature of his relationship with Lieutenant Seymour whose family no doubt suspected the truth of it. Knowing what I did, I had my own suspicions too that, somehow, they had pulled strings, had contrived to have the Honourable James sent home from France, to be kept well out of harm's way, in every sense of the word, until the show was over. Of course, I couldn't prove it, and even if I could have ... When I tried to raise this with my own commanding officer I was told bluntly to my face that it would do Bowen no good at all. Would only serve to condemn him even further in the eyes of the military tribunal. Such a ... relationship was, and in England still is, illegal; let alone at the time crossing the social divide. With this in mind, it was also made very clear to me that the assistance I had given to Bowen, such as it was, could itself be open to _misinterpretation_ ".

"In other words, you were warned off," observed Alec.

"If you like to put it that way, yes. Despite my best efforts - Bowen asked me to represent him - I couldn't shake the testimonies of the half dozen witnesses. The result of the trial was a foregone conclusion. Court martialled, and sentenced to death. The decision confirmed, as were all such sentences, by General Haig himself. It was only a couple of days after Bowen's execution that Mason and I copped it. Later, when I had time to reflect, I thought it decidedly odd that the order for us to go over the top in that part of the line came when it did ..."

"You mean ..."

Matthew ghosted a smile.

" _Dead men tell no tales_. Anyway, it wasn't until much later that, quite by chance, I learned Seymour's father was distantly related to Rawlinson. Second cousin or some such. Which only served to reinforce what I had thought to be the case. Anyway, after I'd recovered the use of my legs, I wrote to Lieutenant Seymour, discretely of course. Said merely that I had known someone who knew him in France. But all I received by way of reply was a letter from his own brother who had been wounded out there in Mesopotamia and brought back to England. Of course, he thanked me for taking the trouble to write and so forth; the usual meaningless pleasantries. Said his brother had gone abroad. Where was not stated".

"And had he?" asked Alec.

"What do you think?"

"So have you any idea of what became of the Honourable James?"

Matthew grimaced.

"As to the that, I suggest both of you read this. Here, I've kept it with me for nigh on thirty years". From his wallet Matthew now took out a neatly folded, yellowing piece of paper which he handed across the table to Simon who found it to be a cutting from a newspaper. There was no indication as to either the edition or its date. But evidently the article dated from the year after the Great War had ended.

* * *

 **Skerries Cove, County Cork, Ireland, late summer 1949.**

Like his mother, ever dependable in a crisis, Danny immediately became practical. The Englishman trapped down there on the cliff would have to be helped to safety but since the ledge on which he was stranded was far too narrow and far too unstable to support the weight of another, this could only be accomplished from above. With a long length of rope obtained in haste from the nearby farm, with one end secured tightly beneath the arms of the young Englishman and the other to the pommel of Danny's saddle, watched by an admiring Mary, Danny expertly backed his horse slowly away from the cliff. A few moments later, the young man was safe and sound on the grass at the top of the cliff. Having untied the rope and dusted himself down, the young man looked up at Danny and smiled.

"Thank you, old boy. Damned fine show that!"

Danny nodded; now remembered his manners, something which his parents had drilled into him from a very early age.

"May I present my aunt ... the countess of Grantham".

The man went to touch his cap; realised it was still somewhere down on the cliff. Simply nodded his head.

As Mary sat her horse and looked down into the face of the smiling young Englishman, she thought he seemed somehow familiar; was certain that she had seen him somewhere before. Then realisation dawned. But no, surely not? He had the features ... of Algy Braithwaite. Now remembered that Algy and his dim witted wife Millie had had a son who would, she supposed, be about the age this young man was now. But if he was who she supposed him to be, what on earth was he doing here in Ireland? More especially in County Cork, where his mother's people had once owned the Cullen Hall estate?

* * *

 **Blakeney Hall, Norfolk, England, 11th November 1919.**

Across the park, just as their forebears had done for nigh on six centuries, a herd of fallow deer was grazing placidly.

The church clock chimed and then began to strike the hour.

The eleventh hour, of the eleventh day, of the eleventh month.

The exact moment when the previous year the sound of the great guns had at last died away.

Startled, cawing raucously, a murder of crows flew up from the elm trees.

And as the church clock continued its dolorous strokes, the Honourable James Alfred Seymour, second son of the Earl of Bath now picked up the Webley, placed the muzzle against his temple, pulled the trigger, and blew out his brains.

 **Author's Note:**

Shabbat - the Jewish Sabbath.

Dima - the diminuitive of Dimitri.

The purchasing of commissions in the British Army had been abolished in 1871.

"I'll go to the foot of our stairs" -" an old expression from the north of England registering surprise or amazement and one which, coming from Leeds, Alec Foster would know well.

 _Lions led by donkeys_ \- used to describe the British infantry, and to blame the generals who led them. Said to have originated during the First World War, this phrase actually pre-dates the Great War.

Albert (pronounced Albear) - the Battle of Albert - 1st-13th July 1916 - the name given by the British to the onset of the fighting on the Somme.

What caused shell shock was initially not properly understood. It is sadly true that the British Army took an exceedingly dim view of NCOs (those who were not officers) who were said to be suffering from the complaint. Prince Edward's Convalescent Home in Hunstanton, Norfolk (opened in 1879 by and named after Edward VII when he was Prince of Wales), did indeed deal with shell shock cases. Eventually, there were many such hospitals scattered throughout the length and breadth of the country. The most famous of these was Craiglockhart near Edinburgh which treated both Wilfred Owen and Siegfried Sassoon.


	8. Chapter 8

**And now comes the final chapter of _Renoir's Ghost._ You will have to wait until the very last part of the story to find out the reason for the title!**

 **The Irish Chauffeur**

Chapter Eight

Next Year In Jerusalem

 **Villa Artemis, above Menton, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.**

Matthew ran his fingers through his greying hair before lofting a quizzical brow at Alice.

"Aren't you forgetting what I once told you ... I mean about trying to interfere in other people's lives?"

Her eyes dark and luminous, Alice smiled.

" _Pas du tout!_ "

"But are you really quite sure about ..." began Matthew, clearly perplexed by what it was Alice had just asked of him.

She smiled again.

"Yes, _mon chéri_. Perfectly sure. _Et, vraiment_ , I would like it so very much to meet both with your son ... and his artist friend".

Matthew nodded.

"Very well then. If that's what you want. Here, I presume?" Spreading his hands wide, he indicated the villa. "That is, assuming, of course, that Simon and _his artist friend_ would be willing ..." Matthew paused; took stock. "Yes, I don't see why not. If I tell him how things stand ... I'm certain that it can all be arranged. Even so, why on earth this?" He held up the hastily drafted codicil.

Alice sighed.

" _S'il te plaît_ As for that, put it down to the capriciousness of a woman! Given the circumstances ..." Alice coughed; reached about for the glass of water standing beside the carafe on the table. Matthew made to move forward but having found the glass, Alice waved him back into his chair. Matthew did as he was bidden but not before he saw how pale Alice was; her skin was waxen, like parchment, and tightly drawn.

"Why do you think? My ... my fortune can do nothing for the past, but it might do some good for the future".

"Then, if that is what you wish, so be it".

Alice nodded her assent.

"As to where ..." Alice now chose deliberately to make use of the French form of his name. " _Matthieu_ , I am not yet so ill that I am no longer able to travel. If it is not too far. And at this time of year, I know that Antibes is particularly beautiful. So, if you would kindly make the necessary arrangements ..."

Which, shortly thereafter, Matthew duly did; indeed, that very same afternoon, booking a suite in the name of the comtesse de Roquebrune at the luxurious Hôtel du Cap-Eden-Roc, Cap d'Antibes, and dispatching from the post office down in Menton, a telegram, this forwarded to a far more most address address which Edith had given him ... of a house in nearby St. Paul de Vence.

And which was why, subsequently, despite, or perhaps indeed because of, the laconic nature of the reply he had then received - and which took the form of just two words -

 _Yes_

 _Simon_

but a matter of a couple of days later, in pouring rain, having descended from a First Class coach of the Marseille express, thereafter, Matthew came to find himself standing in the shabby _salle d'attente_ of the railway station at Cagnes-sur-Mer, awaiting the arrival of Simon and his chum from St. Paul de Vence.

* * *

 **Rua da Judiaria, Lisbon, Portugal, late summer 1949.**

While the water still trickled softly down into the circular pool from out of the mouths of the two marble dolphins, here outside in the courtyard it was now full dark. With Gideon having left his father and gone into the house, after a while Jacob did likewise; rose wearily from where he had been sitting, making his way across the time worn flagstones, before stepping over the threshold of the rear door of the house and coming inside. This, just having done her very best to calm both a distraught Hannah and an equally upset young Stefan, still all-of-a-do, Esther, her face yet aglow, bustled back downstairs and into the brightly lit kitchen. Having satisfied herself that in her absence Miriam and Rachel had done what was needed and that nothing for this evening's meal had taken harm, having shooed their two daughters out of the kitchen and firmly closed the door, Esther now addressed herself to Jacob.

"Gideon told me what you said out there in the courtyard. And Hannah too, when I could manage to understand what it was she was saying. What you said to her ... was unforgivable!"

Shamefaced, Jacob nodded.

"Yes. I know. And I will apologise. But, Esther, try and see it from my ..."  
" _But try and see_ , nothing. And yes, most definitely, you will apologise. Immediately. To the both of them". Stone faced, arms akimbo, Esther stood facing her husband across the laden table here in the kitchen of the house on the Rua da Judiaria. For all of his bluster, Jacob knew when was beaten.

"Very well. So you think I should ..."  
"Jacob, since the war ... the Shoah ... times have changed. Young people ... want to get on with their lives. And who can blame them? That said, where is the harm in this? Any of it? From what Gideon tells me ... these friends of the Zhdanovs ... they are very respectable people. Apparently, before the war, the mother of this boy did her best to help a group of Jews in Leopoldstadt".

"Really? I didn't know that ..."  
"Sometimes, Jacob ..." Esther shook her head in disbelief.

"You seriously believe I should permit this ... correspondence ... to continue?" Jacob jabbed forcefully at the letter which he had brought in from the courtyard and was now lying beside him on the kitchen table.

"Why ever not? Earlier this evening, Gideon told you, and has also explained to me, how it was that they both came to meet. So, I ask you again, where is the harm in it?"

"None, I suppose". Jacob sighed. "Very well then. Have it your own way".

Esther laughed.

"Ya'akov, how long have we been married? Forty years. In case you haven't yet realised, I usually do! And, in the meantime, tomorrow, I myself will write to Frau Schönborn, accepting her kind invitation to Hannah to stay with them at their home in France".

* * *

 **Battle of the Somme, France, August 1916.**

Seven o'clock in the morning.

A moment or two later, and Captain Matthew Crawley gave yet another cursory glance at the face of his wristwatch, as if he was doing nothing more prosaic than standing enjoying the warm sunshine of a summer's day on the platform of the railway station at Downton, waiting to meet his mother off the afternoon train from Ripon; as opposed to being where in fact he actually was, here in a dark, foetid, muddy, part waterlogged forward trench on the Western Front.

The time on the fogged dial of his watch showed that it was but a few minutes after seven o'clock, with Zero hour, when they would go over the top, being set for quarter past. Earlier, and very wisely making use of a trench periscope in order to do so, Matthew had taken several furtive, hasty peeps over the sandbagged parapet in order to try and see for himself how the land in front of them lay; only to find that he could see ... nothing. For, shortly after dawn, a dense fog had rolled in, damp, grey, and impenetrable, blotting out the sun, and smothering the battlefield of the Somme like a shroud.

With the earth under his feet constantly aquiver, ever shaking from the relentless detonation of the barrage of exploding shells being fired at the invisible German trenches from the rear of the British lines by their own artillery, resisting the quite understandable urge to cover both his ears with his hands, it was now, that Matthew glanced, surreptitiously, along the whole length of the forward trench, first one way and then the other, as far as where, in each direction, it turned a right angled corner and disappeared out of his line of vision. Apparently without seeing, now took in the entrance to the dugout in which on the morning of Bowen's execution, after the deed had been done, Matthew, by the flickering light of the stub of a candle, had written the letter home to the private's family. Saw too the buckled, rusty sheets of corrugated iron lining the walls of the trench, the wooden duckboards mostly submerged beneath several feet of water, and above all, everywhere, the thick, cloying, glutinous mud of Flanders' fields.

Now caught sight of the pale faces of some of the men under his command, among them that of William, standing quietly, seemingly hearing nothing maybe save perhaps the pounding of their own hearts, their features inscrutable, set as if in stone, their eyes staring blankly into space, their thoughts focused perhaps on the clock hands creeping inexorably forward towards the appointed hour, no doubt wondering what was shortly to become of them. Here and there, a handful were checking their kit. Most were smoking cigarettes, something which Matthew himself had never done, not even at school, some drawing the smoke deeply down into their lungs. Others appeared both carefree and relaxed, were even cracking jokes, almost as if they were sitting together in some grimy Third Class compartment on a day excursion organised from one of the mill towns of Lancashire, such as Accrington, Bolton, Oldham or Rochdale, heading over to Blackpool during Wakes Week; or else to Scarborough on the Yorkshire coast on August Bank Holiday. But then, was that really so surprising, given the fact that they were all supposed to have been home in time for Christmas?

Christmas 1914.

And now, nearly two years later, here they all were; at least those of them who were yet still alive.

With thoughts of home, of his mother, of the house in Manchester where he had grown up, of Downton, of ... Mary, flashing through his mind, Matthew now fell to wondering if this time the repeated salvoes of shells being fired by the British artillery had done their work properly. Or had they failed once again to destroy both the enemy wire and the defences lying beyond it? Had the German machine gun emplacements been blown to smithereens? Or were they still intact? And what of those tasked with manning them? Were they sheltering safe within their own deep dugouts, simply keeping their heads down, ready to re-emerge just as soon as the British barrage ceased? Then to lie in wait, ready to mow down the advancing enemy infantry as they picked their way slowly through the labyrinthine coils of barbed wire protecting Fritz's own positions?

Suddenly, completely without warning, the barrage ceased and now an eerie silence descended upon this exposed sector of the British front line.

But only for an instant.

A moment later, the whistle sounded.

And in an instant, with Matthew at the head of his men, given what they were all used to - who can possibly imagine the feelings of those used to trench warfare suddenly finding themselves completely devoid of refuge - no doubt, feeling utterly exposed, were all hastily scrambling out of the water logged trench, over the crumbling, sodden, torn sandbags of the parapet, and walking forward into the mist.

So began their hellish, slow advance across the blasted desolation of No Man's Land, towards the, as yet, still invisible German lines. As Matthew was later to recall, once they were out of the trench, those of them that made it thus far, both he and his men stumbled blindly forward, enveloped by the mist that with each step they took seemed to grow ever thicker, the squelching mud sucking greedily at their boots. With his pistol at the ready, knowing that this was madness, that in all likelihood every one of them would die here in this grey darkness, Matthew pushed grimly on while from somewhere up ahead there came the incessant chatter of machine gun fire.

And then all hell broke loose, as the Germans now opened up with everything else they possessed: artillery, rifles, mortars, and grenades. Indeed, so great became the noise that when Matthew gave the order to his men keep in touch with him and with one another, it could only be passed on, by both Matthew and those that heard him, shouting at the very top of their voices. Behind him, Matthew heard a man cry out. Someone died. And then another. There were more screams and shouts, voices crying, pleading for stretcher bearers who would never come.

Suddenly, out of the fog, there loomed the shattered remains of a tree and for one brief instant hereabouts the mist rolled back only for Matthew to find himself wishing that it hadn't; as now, around the splintered stump, he glimpsed a score or more bodies, both British and German, or rather, after bullets, shell fire, hooded crows, fat, squirming maggots, and buzzing swarms of black flies had done their work, what little it was that was left of them, casualties of earlier fighting. Then mercifully once more the fog thickened, hiding from Matthew's sight other more unspeakable horrors.

The barrage of fire from the German artillery intensified still further but in the all pervading mist and murk, neither Matthew nor William ever saw the huge shell that, when finally it exploded directly above them, was to suck the very life out of the one and cripple the other. But as the force of the blast detonated, flinging them backwards into a huge shell hole, what, before he lapsed into unconsciousness, Matthew saw last of all was the wooden post in the abandoned farmyard and tied to it Bowen's sagging, bullet ridden corpse.

* * *

 **Villa Artemis, above Menton, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.**

"Really? Are you quite sure?" This time Alice had indeed managed to surprise Matthew with what it was she had now also asked of him.  
" _Oui_ ".

"When?"  
"As I said a moment ago, _n'importe quand_. That ... I leave to you. But I fear it must be soon".

Now, as he considered the matter further, Matthew had to concede that it did all make perfect sense. There was a kind of symmetry to it all. And, moreover, Alice had always loved art. Glancing round the Drawing Room, Matthew took in some of the pictures lining the walls, among them a Cezanne, a Monet, and close by where he was now seated, a small painting of St. Paul de Vence, evidently sketched from somewhere within the town, looking out over the rooftops, to the open countryside beyond. Matthew stood up and gave the painting further study.

"A Renoir. It is beautiful, is it not?" asked Alice from the depths of her _chaise longue_.

"Indeed it is".

" _Vue sur les toits de St. Paul"_.

* * *

 **Bar Nicolas, St. Paul de Vence, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.**

"There you are. And everyone in the family, your Uncle Tom especially, thinks me to be an honourable man! Now the two of you know the truth of it all. So, while I may not approve, who am I to sit in judgement on you two because of how you choose to live your lives?"

Here in the crowded Bar Nicolas, seated opposite him, side by side, both Simon and Alec sat stunned into silence by what Matthew had related, both the horrors of the Western Front and among all that death and carnage, an innocent life snuffed out, to safeguard the reputation of an aristocratic family. For the moment neither of them spoke.

"Father, I'm certain that you did your best," said Simon quietly.

"That's very kind of you my boy, but I don't really think so. I could have ... should have ... done more. Much more".

"Although the result might very well have been the same". This from Alec, who found himself feeling far more kindly disposed towards this softly spoken man than ever he would have thought possible.

"Perhaps. It's a damned odd thing, and I know you'll both think me fanciful, but all the same it's perfectly true, when that shell exploded overhead, before I lost consciousness, the very last thing I remember seeing was indeed the scene of that execution in the farmyard. An honourable man? No, I don't think so!"

Matthew shook his head; looked glumly down at his glass and swirled what yet remained of his wine.

"My God!" Alec shook his head in disbelief, seemingly unaware that he had invoked the name of the deity in whom he no longer believed. "Evidently the Honourable James found out ... what had happened to his lover ... and why. And, also ... the part his own family had played in the affair?"

"Presumably, yes".

"And then took his own life?"

Matthew nodded. Took back the dog eared, yellowed newspaper report, refolded it and placed the cutting within his wallet.

"Indeed. That would be my understanding of it all. A ruddy awful business. In which, however unwillingly, I played a part. Something of which I remain ashamed to this very day. To round off the tale, so to speak, and for what it's worth, not long after after Seymour's elder brother inherited Blakeney, that, I suppose, would have been back in the late '20s, he sold the estate and went out to Kenya, or so I have been given to understand. Became a member of the Happy Valley Set, don't you know. I take it you've heard of them?"

Evidently mystified, Alec and Simon looked blankly at each other before shrugging dismissively and then shaking their heads in unison, reminding Matthew immediately of a pair of nodding porcelain Chinamen which stood together on the mantle piece of the Blue Bedroom in Downton Abbey.

"No? You do surprise me. They, my boy, were one of the reasons why your mother didn't want you going out to East Africa when we learned of ... how things stood between the two of you".

"Oh? And why was that?"

"The Happy Valley Set were a group of degenerates ..."  
"Like us you mean?" asked Alec wooden faced. He lit another cigarette; inhaled deeply.

While he was unused to being interrupted, ever the diplomat, Matthew took Alec's intrusion in good part. So, he merely paused, smiled affably, before finally draining his glass and setting it down on top of the table where it was promptly re-filled, this time by Simon. When it came, his father's response to Alec was matter-of-fact.

"As it happens, Mr. Foster ... no".  
"Alec, please".

"Very well then ... Alec. No. Not at all like you. Either of you. As I was about to say, the Happy Valley set were indeed a group of degenerates. A pack of feckless, louche, English, Anglo-Irish aristocrats who went out to Kenya in the 20s. Later, in the 30s, they became well known, some would say infamous, for their decadent lifestyle and exploits. What they were alleged to get up to in the rainy season, drug taking, sexual promiscuity ... It all more or less came to an end in 1940 with the murder of Lord Erroll. As for Seymour he died a year or two later, in a Nairobi hotel ... of a cocaine overdose".

Again Simon and Alec exchanged glances. Tonight, here in the Bar Nicolas, it was indeed proving to be a time of surprises as never before could Simon ever recall his father discussing such matters so openly.

"How do you know all of this?" he asked; his father's store of unexpected knowledge never ceased to amaze Simon.

"From an old acquaintance of mine; someone who, as it happens, would very much like to meet the two of you. That is, if you are agreeable to doing so".

"Who is he?"  
"Not he. **She** ".

"Who then?" asked Simon.

"A very dear friend. You may have heard your mother speak of her: Alice, comtesse de Roquebrune".

Memory stirred. Simon nodded. If he remembered aright, Mama had, to put it politely, been rather disparaging of the comtesse. What he was thinking must have been reflected clearly in his face as Simon saw his father smile.

"Whatever your mother may once have thought, my relationship with the comtesse, while I love her dearly as a friend, has never been anything other than what it should be. Entirely proper".

Simon nodded. Despite what his father had told them, he would have expected nothing less; still thought him to be an honourable man.

"So just why does she want to see the two of us?"

Matthew smiled; shook his head.  
"As to that, my lips are sealed. You'll have to meet her to find out why".

"Didn't you first become acquainted with her in Switzerland?"  
"Yes, that's right. Many years ago now. In Geneva. Where I was working for the League of Nations. And, in part, it's because of her that I am here now".  
"How so?"

"Firstly, because she is dying and secondly because it was she who convinced me that the breach between us must be healed ..."

"Dying?"

"I wish it wasn't so. But very sadly it is".

"And repairing the breach ... is this for you? For Mama? Because if so ..."

Matthew shook his head; sighed wearily.

"No, Simon. Not just for me. Nor for Mama. For all of us. There must be a way of leaving the past where it is. Before it's too late".

Even in the wan light of the bar, watching his father, it was with a distinct sense of shock that Simon suddenly realised just how old Papa looked; his hair flecked with grey and there were lines on his face where there had been none before. Maybe it had something to do with the strain of recounting what he had told the both of them here tonight. But then again, of course, none of them were getting any younger. After all, he and Alec were both pushing thirty. Yet, like Uncle Tom and Aunt Sybil, Uncle Friedrich and Aunt Edith, foolishly, he had taken it for granted that his parents would always be there, come what may.

Only of course they wouldn't.

None of them would.

"I promised you that I'd think about it".

Matthew nodded.

"Indeed you did. But having told you what I have, I was hoping the pair of you now appreciate that when I say I understand your situation, I do. And there's something else too, which Alice told me ... and which I myself should have realised a while ago".

"Which is?"  
"That following the end of the war the world has changed, perhaps even more markedly than it did after the Great War. That if they so choose, those who wish to live their lives differently should be allowed to do so without fear of censure by so called polite society. After all, the world would be a very much poorer place if we were all the same. And now, if you don't mind, it's been a very long day. Tomorrow, if you're both agreeable and can spare the time, I should like very much to see some of the country hereabouts".

Another olive branch.

Simon looked at Alec; saw him nod.

"Of course. We'd be delighted to show you round".

"Then, thank you. And after that, there's a letter I have to finish writing ..."

"To Mama?"

"Yes, to your mother".

There was nothing more to be said and a short while thereafter all three of them set off through the darkened, cobbled streets of St. Paul de Vence, bound for the Maison des Colombes.

* * *

 **St. Paul de Vence, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.**

Somewhat earlier, the game of _boules_ had drawn to a close. And, in the fading warmth of the summer's evening, as the shadows now lengthened and the dark drew down, here, just outside the old town wall, beneath the shade of the umbrella pine, having watched a short while earlier old Maysonet stomp off in a temper and disappear beneath the gate leading to the Rue Grande, Toussaint at last turned to his friend, Pascal.

" _Crois-tu vraimen_ t ..."

" _Qu'il l'a vu?_ " Pascal shrugged. " _On ne sais jamais; Le Bon Dieu peut-être! En tout cas, il existe depuis des années, des histoires autour de cette maison. Et, après tout, à l'époque de Bonnemort ... Le Vieux ... il y était de temps en temps. Alors, c'est toujours possible_ ..."

" _Qu'en penses-tu?_ " Toussaint's voice sank almost to a whisper.

" _ **Moi**? Je n'en sais rien!_" Pascal gave a loud guffaw and shrugged.

* * *

 **Blakeney Hall, Norfolk, England, 11th November 1919.**

On their return from the Armistice Service held in the parish church, the Seymours were confronted in the hall of the house by their butler, ashen faced, who evidently had something to impart to them.

"Yes, Ellis, what is it?"

"It's Mr. James, sir. He's locked himself in the study".

"Locked himself in the study?"  
"Yes, sir. It was Edward here who heard the shot. He then came to find me sir"  
" **Shot** you say?"

"Yes, Mr. Eustace".

But Eustace didn't hear the butler; was already off, hot footing it down the flagged passage leading to the study.

* * *

 **Maison de Colombes, St. Paul de Vence,** **Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.**

"So what did you make of all of that?" asked Alec as, sometime after all three of them had returned to the house, and Matthew had gone upstairs to bed, Alec and Simon were now climbing the stairs to their own room.

"What?"  
"Your father ... wanting to know about my plans for the art school?"

Simon shrugged.  
"I've no idea. I expect he was just being polite".

"Maybe. But why on earth does this French countess want to meet us?"

"Search me. Hallo! Alec, did you leave a light on up there in the attic?"

"No, of course not!"  
"Then what's that?"

Glancing up, Alec saw coming from his studio, the unmistakable glow of lamplight.

"I'll go and see".

But having left Simon on the landing, as Alec now rounded the last spiral of the stone staircase, ahead of him, the light in the attic suddenly went out. And when Alec reached the doorway of his studio, it was to find the room before him was in complete darkness. He assumed it must have been something to do with the problem which had arisen earlier with the electrics. Made a mental note to himself to have Maysonet or one of his sons check the circuit again in the morning.

Yet, for all that, Alec could have sworn that there was movement there in the shadows.

"Hallo ... is there someone there?"

But answer came there none.

* * *

 **St. Nicholas Church, Blakeney, Norfolk, England, December 1919.**

The view from the churchyard here at Blakeney was just as sombre and depressing as it was from the study window of the hall; looking out as it likewise did over the bleak expanse of the salt marshes, northwards towards the distant sea. It was here, towards the end of November, on a cold, wet day, under a veritable sea of black umbrellas, that the Honourable James Alfred Seymour was laid to rest in the family vault.

The verdict of the Coroner's Court, finally given a week or so earlier, had been one of _suicide, while the balance of mind was disturbed_. Something for which the huddle of family mourners standing in the pouring rain by the steps leading down to the entrance of the Seymour vault was exceedingly thankful. Even more so, that James had not left any letter explaining why he had chosen to do what he had done.

* * *

 **Skerries Cove, County Cork, Ireland, late summer 1949.**

The young Englishman gave them his name as that of Oliver Harding.

A short while later, chatting amiably about this and that, with _Mr. Harding_ ambling along at a steady pace beside the two horses, Mary and Danny trotted into the yard of the neighbouring farm which lay but a mile or so distant. Here, while Danny went inside the house and made the necessary arrangements to have Mr. Harding conveyed back to his yacht moored in Kinsale Harbour, Mary sat her horse outside. A short while later, Danny came to tell her that all was in order and that the farmer would take Mr. Harding down into Kinsale, where Danny himself had certain matters to attend to. Would Aunt Mary be all right to ride back to Skerries on her own?

Having feigned mock outrage, that she was being abandoned and in a foreign country too, Mary smiled. Said that she was more than perfectly capable of finding her own way back to the house. Then, having made her farewells, as if the Furies were after her, sparing a fond thought for Matthew who with his love of things Classical had told her all about the three infernal goddesses of Ancient Greece, - Alecto, Megaera and Tisiphone - even if on more than one occasion he had said that both he and darling Tom were of the firm opinion that the Furies they had been re-incarnated in the three Crawley sisters, Mary set her heels to the flanks of her mare and galloped back as fast as she could to Skerries House.

* * *

 **Maison de Colombes, St. Paul de Vence,** **Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.**

Two days later, early in morning, before they left for Antibes and the Hôtel du Cap-Eden-Roc, Jules and his brother Pierre duly arrived at the house to tackle what building work yet remained, most of it being to do with the _colombier_. Mentioned in passing that their father would not be returning - some indisposition - and assured Simon and Alec that there was nothing whatsoever wrong with the newly installed electrics. What they had taken for lamplight must have been moonlight, shining in through the attic window. That vanished when a heavy bank of cloud had descended.

It was only when the battered 2CV was approaching the railway station down in Cagnes-sur-Mer, that Matthew suddenly remarked that on the night in question there had been no moon.

* * *

 **Hôtel du Cap-Eden-Roc, Cap d'Antibes,** **Alpes Maritimes, F** **rance, late summer 1949.**

The picture stood propped on the mantle piece in the sitting room of Alice's hotel suite. And as Matthew continued to gaze at it, realisation suddenly dawned.

"Well I'll be damned," he said softly. Hearing footsteps, Matthew turned to see Alice coming out of her bedroom, wearing an elegant Dior "New Look" dress. He recognised the style - now that rationing of clothes was officially over, Mary had insisted on purchasing, at great expense, several when last they were up in town.

"Will I do?" Alice asked.

"Perfectly!" Matthew smiled and straightway offered her his arm. "But before we go down, there's something I think you should know ..."

* * *

 **Skerries House, County Cork,** **Ireland, late summer 1949** **.**

Having quickly unsaddled and seen to her mare down at the stables, once back up at the house as Mary hurried into the hall in search of both Tom and Sybil she saw, coming slowly down the staircase, Emily, arm in arm with Dermot who was evidently now feeling rather better than had been the case when he had been brought back here on a stretcher semi conscious last night.

"Now, I'm not going too fast for you, am I? If you need to, lean on me".

"No, not at all. I think I could get used to this!" Dermot grinned at his cousin.

In the normal course of things, Mary would have had something to say about this burgeoning romance. Not that she objected to Dermot _per s_ e but one marriage in the family between cousins was quite enough thank you very much. However, if only for the present, giving Emily a piece of her mind would have to wait.

"If you're looking for Da, he and Ma are in the study," volunteered Dermot.

"Thank you, Dermot".

Leaving Emily and Dermot to their own devices, Mary hurried on across the hall, only to find the door of Tom's study unexpectedly closed from behind which there came the swift rise and fall of several voices. That of Tom, of Sybil too, and of someone else who for the present Mary could not identify. She knocked sharply and then opened the door.

* * *

 **Hôtel du Cap-Eden-Roc, Cap d'Antibes,** **Alpes Maritimes, F** **rance, late summer 1949.**

"... but it would be a very great kindness to me if you did. And, after all what I am proposing, is for the benefit of many. Surely that accords with your Socialist principles, does it not, Monsieur Foster?" The countess smiled.

Here, seated out in the sunshine on the terrace, in the beautiful surroundings of the luxurious hotel, Alec was about to demur. To point out that he was a Communist not a Socialist. But it seemed a churlish thing to do. And, if the truth be told, just like Jacob Abastado, he knew only too well when he was beaten; as earlier with Simon's father. For, despite the privileged background and wealth enjoyed hitherto by this beautiful, now dying woman, Alec found himself warming more and more to the comtesse de Robquebrune who had turned out not to be at all what either he, or for that matter Simon, had expected. Alice, as she had insisted they both call her, was a cultured, sophisticated woman. A true artist, in every sense of the word.

And the money she was now offering Alec, would permit him to do what, in his wildest dreams, he had always wanted to. Something which, back in England, he had spoken about before many times to Simon but never thought he would ever see realised. That being to set up a studio, in perhaps Cornwall or else Devon; a school for budding artists. But which now would, instead, be established here, down in the south of France. The monies being placed at his disposal, of which Simon's father was to be Trustee, would enable the purchase of a suitable building and Alec knew just where - an old barn, on the edge of St. Paul which Maysonet had said was up for sale - its renovation, and equipping, in order to provide a large studio. far larger than that at the top of the house which would remain instead his own private domain. And with a substantial sum also to be invested so as to provide bursaries for those individuals not possessed of the means to fund themselves.

To have tarred all of the aristocracy, whether English or French, with the same brush Alec would readily now concede had been grossly unfair, even if it had taken him, someone who had grown up in the filthy slums of Leeds, nigh on twenty years to realise.

"Very well then. But in return, the studio, it must bear your name. Now and for all time".

And with this, Alice herself likewise had to be content. But she had not quite done. Not yet.

"And one thing more ..."

* * *

 **Gare de Biarritz-Ville, Biarritz, south west France. late summer 1949.**

Here in the forecourt, seated in the motor, watching Kurt hot footing it into the station with Hope gambolling along beside him, Friedrich laid a restraining hand on Edith's arm.

"Let the boy have his head. Liebling, in case you haven't realised, love is like chicken pox. Best to catch it early!"  
Edith smiled; shook her head and sighed.

"Were either of us ever that young?"

"Probably! Edith, he's seventeen ..."

"For what it's worth, I seem to remember you saying something very similar about darling Max. That he was seventeen, ... and look where that led".

"To, however brief it was, a very happy and loving marriage. And to the birth of our grandson, Josef!"

"You surely don't mean that Kurt ..."

* * *

 **Skerries House, County Cork, Ireland, late summer 1949.**

Mary closed the door firmly behind her. Now saw the owner of the third voice, and which she had not, so far, been able to place, to be that of Mr. Bradley, the gentleman from the Lake District, here at Skerries for the fishing. Only ...

"This," explained Tom rising from his chair, "is Chief Inspector Bradley, of Scotland Yard. "Chief Inspector, may I introduce my sister-in-law, the countess of Grantham".

Mary inclined her head.

"A policeman?"

Tom nodded; indicated that Mary might like to sit down and which she duly did.

The Chief Inspector smiled.  
"Indeed. I must apologise for the subterfuge but, as I was explaining to your brother-in-law here, Mr. Branson, it was, I assure you, absolutely necessary".

"I see. Or rather, I don't ... Tom, just what is going on?"

"The Chief Inspector is here in Ireland as a result of an attempt being made to smuggle a large quantity of arms into the Republic from West Germany. They were on board the steamer which ran aground off the cove".

"I see. Arms you say?"

"Yes. Rifles, revolvers, ammunition, and so forth. All stolen, over a year ago, and rather embarrassingly, from a British army base near Hamburg. Ever since then we and our Irish colleagues in the Garda have had those we believed to be involved under surveillance; waiting for them to show their hand. Including the owner of that fancy yacht moored down there in Kinsale Harbour and who, along with all the others involved over here, is now in custody down there in Kinsale".

Mary nodded.

"You mean Mr. Braithwaite?"  
"Just how the devil do you know his name?" asked the Chief Inspector, clearly amazed by Mary's unexpected knowledge.

"Earlier today, my nephew, Mr. Daniel Branson, helped rescue him from off the cliffs overlooking the cove. Although he gave his name as _Harding_ , the young man reminded me of someone we all once knew. I came back here to let my brother-in-law know. Tom, you remember Algy Braithwaite and his wife Millie?"

"Millie Anstruther? Whose family once owned Cullen Hall?" asked Sybil.  
"Yes".

The Chief inspector nodded his agreement.

"Oliver Braithwaite. The son. Yes. None too bright".  
Tom smiled.

"Like father like son then!"

"Actually young Braithwaite is small fry. All of this is way above his league. Apparently, he only got involved to pay off his gambling debts. Of course, they hadn't bargained on a mechanical breakdown".  
"Mechanical breakdown?"

"One of the engines of the tramp steamer ... What with the currents hereabouts, on half power, in a heavy sea, in thick fog, going hard aground off Skerries Cove, was, I would say, almost inevitable. Before that happened, the arms were to have been off loaded out at sea onto Braithwaite's yacht, brought ashore further down the coast, and then stored, as far as we can gather, in the cellars under the ruins of Cullen Hall, destined eventually for ..."

"The IRA, no doubt".

The Chief Inspector smiled.

"I see you are well informed, Mr. Branson".

Tom smiled.

"As a former newspaper editor, I still have my contacts".

"Indeed. And as you are doubtless well aware, there are those who want a united Ireland and will use violence to achieve that aim. You mentioned your nephew ..."

Mary nodded.

"A week or so ago, it was he who put us on to the fact that there was something going on at Cullen Hall which, putting two and two together, we decided might well be connected with this business ... reporting to the local Garda that he'd seen several men acting suspiciously in the vicinity of the ruins of the house".

"He never said anything to us".

"He was asked not to". The Chief Inspector glanced first at Mary and then at Tom and Sybil. "If I may say so, he's a very personable and resourceful young man. And a credit to all of you".

* * *

 **Hôtel du Cap-Eden-Roc, Cap d'Antibes, France, late summer 1949.**

 **"** I have something else for you too. Matthieu, would you ..." The earl of Grantham nodded; reached down and picked up a package wrapped in brown paper and handed across it to Alec.

"I don't understand".

"If you open it, perhaps you will".

Alec untied the string and tore off the brown paper to reveal within a small picture.

"Well, I'll be ..."

* * *

 **Gare de Biarritz-Ville, south west France, late summer 1949.**

The long train of the luxurious brown and cream coaches of the Sud Express drew finally to a complete stand in the platform of the Gare de Biarritz-Ville. While Gideon had accompanied his young cousin Hannah on the train, north from the Rosso station in Lisbon en route to Paris Austerlitz, breaking his journey here in Biarritz where it had been arranged that the Schönborns would meet Hannah, he had the innate good sense to stay on board the express while Kurt and Hannah met again for the first time since they had parted several weeks ago on this very same platform.

Not that either Kurt or Hannah could have known it, but history was about to repeat itself. Nearly a decade had now passed since that long gone day back in June 1940 when, all unsuspecting, Kurt's brother Max had climbed down from the Exeter train at Wrangaton station in Devonshire, to find waiting there on the platform the young woman who was destined to become his wife.

Now, in the very same instant as Kurt looked up to see Hannah climbing down from the express, and she saw him standing there before her on the platform, both of them knew that their feelings for each other had not changed.

And never would.

* * *

 **Skerries House, County Cork,** **Ireland, late summer 1949** **.**

From the woods, where Danny and Claire were keeping an eye on Ailis and the four young boys playing in the tree house, there came the sound of shouts and laughter while here on the lawn at the front of the house, as Tom saw Dermot and Emily strolling hand in hand across the grass, he chuckled.

"Ah, young love, to be sure!" Tom turned back to Mary. Nodded towards the letter she was holding. "There now. What did I tell yous?"

"Oh, darling Tom! I really don't deserve him, do I?" Her face radiant, Mary glanced again at the letter from which she had been reading and which had arrived here at Skerries this morning all the way from Menton in the south of France.

"Yes you do. And he you. Remember what Tom said all those years ago?" This from Sybil.

 _Because I'll tell you this: yous won't be happy with anyone else while Lady Mary walks the earth._

Memory stirred. Mary smiled then nodded.

"Matthew goes on to say that he's hopeful that Simon will be at Rebecca and David's wedding! Now isn't that wonderful news! David will be delighted. Matthew's staying on down there for the funeral. Well, that's perfectly understandable of course. And that after he's settled what needs to be done _I'll be on my way home to Downton!"_ Oh, I feel such an awful heel. If only he'd told me all of this before ... I don't know how on earth I shall ever make it up to him".

"Oh, I'm sure you'll find a way!" Seated out in the bright sunshine, Sybil smiled; mindful of the fact that some of her and Tom's best bedsport had come in the aftermath of arguments or misunderstandings, each then doing his or her utmost to make it up to the other by showing just how much they really loved each another.

"Sybil! Don't! You're making me blush!"

"I don't t'ink Matthew will need much enticing to let you make it up to him for sure ... I mean after what yous just read ... about him drinking champagne, eating caviar, and oysters," drawled Tom, lapsing into a thick Irish brogue,

"Yes, but as he said, that was only for a celebratory meal. To mark the completion of the renovation of the house in St. Paul".

Tom grinned.

"For sure".

"So why the charming smile?"

"Why do yous t'ink? Grand, it is".

"What is?"

"Matthew being the honourable man that he is".  
"What's that got to do with it?"  
"Well, Mary, t'ink about it, for sure. There he is, down there on the French Riviera, eating all those aphrodisiacs, deprived of your love and companionship for several weeks on end, surrounded by all those _demoiselles_ and unable to _..."_

"Tom! You make Matthew sound like some kind of sex maniac!"

"What with him being a red bloodied male of the species, I should t'ink Matthew will be ready to forgive yous anything if yous plays your cards right". Tom winked broadly at Mary.

"Well, perhaps".

"No perhaps about it, for sure!"

They all laughed.

* * *

 **Hôtel du Cap-Eden-Roc, Cap d'Antibes, France, late summer 1949.**

Alec peered at the signature, a single word, painted in black letters, in the bottom right hand corner of the picture.

"A **Renoir**?" he gasped. "And you are giving it ... to me?"

Alice nodded.

"Then, thank you. It's wonderful".

" _De rien_. You, I think, Mr. Foster, perhaps more than most, will appreciate its true value, which has nothing of course to do with money. Do you recognise the location?"  
"Of course. It's St. Paul".

" _Bien sur_. And from where it was painted?"

However, before Alec could answer her, he felt Simon, who had come to stand behind him, rest his hands lightly on his shoulders.

"But that's the view from your studio, at the top of the house ... our house!"

Alice nodded enthusiastically.

"So your father has now told me. Did you know that Renoir was a frequent visitor to St. Paul? That he and the old man, Bonnemort, were friends?"

Alec shook his head.

"No, I didn't know that".

"Well, they were. And, evidently on at least one occasion, the great man used the attic which you intend shortly to use as your own studio to paint that picture".

"So what I told you all ... about what I thought I saw the other night ..."

"Perhaps a blessing for your future endeavours - from one artist to another?" suggested Alice with the merest ghost of a gentle smile.

Matthew likewise smiled.

Now quoted from memory:

 _There are more things in heaven and Earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy_

 **Author's Note:**

Built in 1869 as a private mansion, the Hôtel du Cap-Eden-Roc, Cap d'Antibes opened as a hotel in 1887 and is still in business today.

Wakes Week - once widely observed in north west England, when the working classes, especially those from the cotton mill towns of both Lancashire and Yorkshire, went on holiday by train to the coast.

During the nineteenth century, Chinese clay figures with movable, nodding heads were made in Canton for export to the West where they proved very popular as depictions of both Chinese dress and customs.

In Great Britain, clothes rationing had ended only recently - on 15th March 1949.

Up in town - in London.

That, during the last part of his life, the artist Renoir both visited and painted in and around St. Paul de Vence is well known and was the inspiration for this whole story.

 _There are more things ..._ Hamlet, Act One Scene Five, by William Shakespeare.


End file.
